“Nay, nay, Huntingdon,” said he, “you’re too hard upon her; she must have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man! she’s worn to a shadow already.”

“What are her sufferings to mine?” said the poor invalid. “You don’t grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?”

“No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life to save you, if I might.”

“Would you, indeed? No!”

“Most willingly I would.”

“Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die!”

There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy reflections; but while I pondered for something to say that might benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing almost the same course, broke silence with, “I say, Huntingdon, I would send for a parson of some sort: if you didn’t like the vicar, you know, you could have his curate, or somebody else.”