t if,
despite all the physician's assurances, he might be sinking,
sinking--my friend, my hope, my pride, all my comfort in this
life--passing from it and from me into another, where, let me call
never so wildly, he could not answer me any more, nor come back to me
any more.

Oh, God of mercy! if I were to be left in this world without my brother!

I had many a time thought over the leaving him, going quietly away when
it should please the Giver of all breath to recall mine, falling
asleep, encompassed and sustained by his love until the last; then, a
burden no longer, leaving him to work out a glorious life, whose rich
web should include and bring to beautiful perfection all the poor
broken threads in mine. But now, if this should be all vain, if he
should go from me, not I from him--I slid down to the ground, to my
knees, and the dumb cry of my agony went up on high.

How could I save him?

There seemed but one way; I sprung at it; stayed not to think if it
were right or wrong, honourable or dishonourable. His life hung in the
balance, and there was but one way; besides, had I not cried unto God
for help?

I put aside the blind, and looked out of doors. For weeks I had not
crossed the threshold; I almost started to find that it was spring.
Everything looked lovely in the coloured twilight; a blackbird was
singing loudly in the Abbey trees across the way; all things were fresh
and glowing, laden with the hope of the advancing year. And there he
lay on his sick-bed, dying!

All he said, as I drew the curtain back, was a faint moan--"No light! I
can't bear the light! Do let me rest!"

In half-an-hour, without saying a word to human being, I was on my way
to Ursula March.

She sat knitting in the summer-parlour alone. The doctor was out; Mrs.
Jessop I saw down the long garden, bonnetted and shawled, busy among
her gooseberry-bushes--so we were safe.

As I have said, Ursula sat knitting, but her eyes had a soft
dreaminess. My entrance had evidently startled her, and driven some
sweet, shy thought away.

But she met me cordially--said she was glad to see me--that she had not
seen either of us lately; and the knitting pins began to move quickly
again.

Those dainty fingers--that soft, tremulous smile--I could have hated
her!

"No wonder you did not see us, Miss March; John has been very ill, is
ill now--almost dying."

I hurled the words at her, sharp as javelins, and watched to see them
strike.