beaming I could read the gloomy prestige of my fate. The hurried but
cautious step, the whispered sentences, the averted gaze of those who
sorrowed for me, sunk far deeper into my heart than my friends then thought
of. Little do they think, who minister to the sick or dying, how each
passing word, each flitting glance is noted, and how the pale and stilly
figure which lies all but lifeless before them counts over the hours he has
to live by the smiles or tears around him!

Hours, days, weeks rolled over, and still my fate hung in the balance; and
while in the wild enthusiasm of my erring faculties, I wandered far in
spirit from my bed of suffering and pain, some well-remembered voice beside
me would strike upon my ear, bringing me back, as if by magic, to all the
realities of life, and investing my almost unconscious state with all the
hopes and fears about me.

One by one, at length, these fancies fled from me, and to the delirium of
fever succeeded the sad and helpless consciousness of illness, far, far
more depressing; for as the conviction of sense came back, the sorrowful
aspect of a dreary future came with it.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE VILLA.

The gentle twilight of an autumnal evening, calm, serene, and mellow, was
falling as I opened my eyes to consciousness of life and being, and looked
around me. I lay in a large and handsomely-furnished apartment, in which
the hand of taste was as evident in all the decorations as the unsparing
employment of wealth; the silk draperies of my bed, the inlaid tables, the
ormolu ornaments which glittered upon the chimney, were one by one so many
puzzles to my erring senses, and I opened and shut my eyes again and again,
and essayed by every means in my power to ascertain if they were not the
visionary creations of a fevered mind. I stretched out my hands to feel the
objects; and even while holding the freshly-plucked flowers in my grasp I
could scarce persuade myself that they were real. A thrill of pain at this
instant recalled me to other thoughts, and I turned my eyes upon my wounded
arm, which, swollen and stiffened, lay motionless beside me. Gradually, my
memory came back, and to my weak faculties some passages of my former
life were presented, not collectedly it is true, nor in any order, but
scattered, isolated scenes. While such thoughts flew past, my ever-rising
question to myself was, "Where am I now?" The vague feeling which illness
leaves upon the mind, whispe