There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was not. “That was the crisis, Helen!” said he, delightedly. “I had an infernal pain here⁠—it is quite gone now. I never was so easy since the fall⁠—quite gone, by heaven!” and he clasped and kissed my hand in the very fullness of his heart; but finding I did not participate in his joy, he quickly flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and insensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my lips⁠—for the first time since our separation⁠—and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it was not that that kept me silent: it was the fear that this sudden cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom as he supposed. I immediately sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him.

Hattersley is also by his side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday for me, that I might have a run in the park, this fine frosty morning, with Milicent and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had driven over to see me. Our poor invalid evidently felt it a heartless proposition, and would have felt it still more heartless in me to accede to it. I therefore said I would only go and speak to them a minute, and then come back. I did but exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico, inhaling the fresh, bracing air as I stood, and then, resisting the earnest and eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and join them in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned to my patient. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproached me bitterly for my levity and neglect. His friend espoused my cause.

“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.”

“Perhaps I may recover,” he replied; “who knows? This may have been the crisis. What do you think, Helen?” Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inwardly feared was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after he relapsed into a kind of doze, but now he groans again.

My worst fears are realised: mortification has commenced. The doctor has told him there is no hope. No words can describe his anguish. I can write no more.