doing at this moment? wholly unconscious of
this heavenly scene--perhaps revelling with his boon companions,
perhaps--God help me, it is too--too much!

23rd.--Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushed and
feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his
vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or
look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the
heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself-he must be so
indeed, and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My
forbearance pleases him--touches him even, I am inclined to think. He
says he is glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get him
back, even as he is. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and I
play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him,
and get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with
silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am spoiling
him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I will
shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me again.

He is pleased with my attentions--it may be, grateful for them. He likes
to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy with his servants
and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. What he would be, if I did
not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully avoid, or
immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to irritate or
disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell. How intensely I
wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night, as I sat beside him,
with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls,
this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears--as it often
does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made him look up. He
smiled, but not insultingly.

'Dear Helen!' he said--'why do you cry? you know that I love you' (and he
pressed my hand to his feverish lips), 'and what more could you desire?'

'Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and as faithfully as
you are loved by me.'

'That would be hard, indeed!' he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand.

August 24th.--Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light of
heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a spoilt
child, and almost as full of mischief t