“He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins’s death.” He interrupted:—
“Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.”
I went on:—
“I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he had a sort of shock.”
“A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of a shock was it?”
“He thought he saw someone who recalled something terrible, something which led to his brain fever.”
And here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:—
“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel more than ever—and it has grown with my advancing years—the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you