h the days, she lay heedless of
things around her, solely occupied with the past, with affliction, with
remorse. Had it not been in her power to save him? A word from her, and
at this moment he would have been living in cheerfulness such as he had
never known. She would have had but to turn her head, and his smile
would have met her; the rare laugh, so touching to her always, would
have become less rare; his struggles would have been over. She had
willed that he should die, had sent him forth relentlessly to his last
trial, to his forsaken end. Without a leave-taking he had gone forth;
his last look had been at her blank windows. That hour was passed into
eternity, and with it the better part of her life.

On the first day that she rose from her bed, she went, with the nurse's
aid, to her mother's room. What she saw there was a new shock; her
mother's face had aged incredibly, and wore a look of such feeble
intelligence that to meet her eyes was more than painful. Upon the
artificial maintenance of her strength throughout Emily's illness had
followed a collapse of the vital powers; it seemed doubtful whether she
would ever regain her normal state of mind and body. She knew her
daughter, and, when Emily kissed her, the muscles of her haggard face
contracted in what was meant for a smile; but she could not use her
voice above a whisper, and her words were seldom consequent.

Two days later Mrs. Baxendale again paid a visit. Emily was sitting in
her bed-room, unoccupied, on her countenance the sorrow-stricken gravity
which never quitted it. The visitor, when she had made her inquiries,
seemed to prepare herself to speak of some subject at once important and
cheerful.

'For a fortnight,' she said, 'I have had staying with me someone whom
you will be glad to hear of--your nearest friend.'

Emily raised her eyes slowly to the speaker's face; clearly she
understood, but was accustoming herself to this unexpected relation
between Mrs. Baxendale and Wilfrid.

'Mr. Athel came from Switzerland as soon as he heard of your illness.'

'How did he hear?' Emily inquired, gravely.

'My niece, Miss Redwing, whom you knew, happened to be visiting me. She
wrote to Mrs. Rossall.'

Emily was silent. The lines of her mouth showed a slight tremor, but no
colour sought her cheeks. The news was affecting her strongly, but only
in the way in which she now received every impression; physical weakness
had the effect of reducing outward dem