There she lay, unconscious that I was looking at her⁠—quiet, more quiet than I had dared to hope, but not sleeping. The glimmer of the night-light showed me that her eyes were only partially closed⁠—the traces of tears glistened between her eyelids. My little keepsake⁠—only a brooch⁠—lay on the table at her bedside, with her prayerbook, and the miniature portrait of her father which she takes with her wherever she goes. I waited a moment, looking at her from behind her pillow, as she lay beneath me, with one arm and hand resting on the white coverlid, so still, so quietly breathing, that the frill on her nightdress never moved⁠—I waited, looking at her, as I have seen her thousands of times, as I shall never see her again⁠—and then stole back to my room. My own love! with all your wealth, and all your beauty, how friendless you are! The one man who would give his heart’s life to serve you is far away, tossing, this stormy night, on the awful sea. Who else is left to you? No father, no brother⁠—no living creature but the helpless, useless woman who writes these sad lines, and watches by you for the morning, in sorrow that she cannot compose, in doubt that she cannot conquer. Oh, what a trust is to be placed in that man’s hands tomorrow! If ever he forgets it⁠—if ever he injures a hair of her head!⁠—