Still Nina's mind was enshrouded in as deep a gloom as ever, and Dr. Griswold, who, toward the latter part of June, came to see her, said it would be so always. There was no hope of her recovery, and with his olden tenderness of manner he caressed his former patient, sighing as he thought of the weary life before her. For two days Dr. Griswold remained at Grassy Spring, learning in that time much how matters stood. He saw Edith Hastings,— scanned with his clear, far-reaching eye every action of Arthur St. Claire, and when at last his visit was ended, and Arthur was walking with him to the depot, he said abruptly, "I am sorry for you, St. Claire; more sorry than I ever was before, but you know the path of duty and you must walk in it, letting your eyes stray to neither side, lest they fall upon forbidden fruit."

Arthur made no reply save to kick the gnarled roots of the tree under which they had stopped for a few moments.

"Edith Hastings is very beautiful!" Dr. Griswold remarked suddenly, and as if SHE had just entered his mind. "Does she come often to Grassy Spring?"

"Every day," and Arthur tried to look his friend fully in the face, but could not, and his brown eyes fell as he added hastily, "she comes to see Nina; they are greatly attached."

"She HAS a wonderful power over her, I think," returned Dr. Griswold; "and I am not surprised that you esteem her highly on that account, but how will it be hereafter when other duties, other relations claim her attention. Will she not cease to visit you and so Nina made worse?"

"What new duties? What relations do you mean," Arthur asked quickly, trembling in every joint as he anticipated the answer.

"I have a fancy that Miss Hastings will reward that blind man for all his kindness with her heart and hand."

"Her hand it may be, but her heart, NEVER," interrupted Arthur, betraying by his agitation what Dr. Griswold had already guessed.

"Poor Arthur," he said, "I know what is in your mind and pity you so much, but you can resist temptation and you MUST. There's no alternative. You chose your destiny years ago—abide by it, then. Hope and pray, as I do, that Edith Hastings will be the blind man's bride."

"Oh, Griswold," and Arthur groaned aloud, "you cannot wish to sacrifice her thus!"

"I can—I do—it will save you both from ruin."

"Then you think—you DO think she loves me," and Arthur looked eagerly at his friend, who answered, "I think nothing, save that she will marry Mr. Harrington. Your cousin told me there was a rumor to that effect. She is often at Collingwood, and ought to be posted."

"Griswold, I wish I were dead," exclaimed Arthur. "Yes, I wish I were dead, and were it not that I dread the hereafter, I would end my existence at once in yonder river," and he pointed to the Chicopee, winding its slow way to the westward.

Dr. Griswold gazed at him a moment in silence, and then replied somewhat sternly, "Rather be a man and wait patiently for the future."

"I would, but for the fear that Edith will be lost to me forever," Arthur answered faintly, and Dr. Griswold replied, "Better so than lost herself. Why not be candid with her; tell her everything; go over the entire past, and if she truly loves you, she will wait, years and years if need be. She's young yet, too young to be a wife. Will you tell her?"

"I can't, I can't," and Arthur shook his head despairingly. "I have hidden the secret too long to tell it now. It might have been easy at first, but now—it's too late. Oh, Griswold, you do not understand what I suffer, for you never knew what it was to love as I love Edith Hastings." For a moment Dr. Griswold looked at him in silence. He knew how fierce a storm had gathered round him, and how bravely he had met it. He knew, too, how impetuous and ardent was his disposition, how much one of his temperament must love Edith Hastings, and he longed to speak to him a word of comfort. Smoothing the brown hair of the bowed head, and sighing to see how many threads of silver were woven in it, he said,

"I pity you so much, and can feel for you more than you suspect. You say I know not what it is to love. Oh, Arthur, Arthur. You little guessed what it cost me, years ago, to give up NINA BERNARD. It almost broke my heart, and the wound is bleeding yet! Could the past be undone; could we stand where we did that night which both remember so well, I would hold you back; and Nina, crazy as she is, should this moment be mine—mine to love, to cherish, to care for and weep over when she is dead. Poor little unfortunate Nina—my darling—my idol—my clipped-wing bird!"

It was Dr. Griswold's voice which trembled now, and Arthur's which essayed to comfort him.

"I never dreamed of this," he said. "I knew you, with others, had a liking for her, but you relinquished her so willingly, I could not guess you loved her so well," and in his efforts to soothe his friend, Arthur forgot his own sorrow in part.

It was time now for the Dr. to go, as the smoke of the coming train was visible over the hills. "You need not accompany me further," he said, offering his hand to Arthur, who pressed it in silence, and then walked slowly back to Grassy Spring.

Those were terrible days which followed the visit of Dr. Griswold, for to see Edith Hastings often was a danger he dared not incur, while to avoid her altogether was utterly impossible, and at last resolving upon a change of scene as his only hope, he one morning astonished Grace with the announcement that he was going South, and it might be many weeks ere he returned.

Since coming to that neighborhood, Arthur had been a puzzle to Grace, and she watched him now in amazement, as he paced the floor, giving her sundry directions with regard to Nina, and telling her where a letter would find him in case she should be sick, and require his personal attention. It was in vain that Grace expostulated with him upon what seemed to her a foolish and uncalled-for journey. He was resolved, and saying he should not probably see Edith ere his departure, he left his farewell with her.

Once he thought of bidding her encourage Edith to marry the blind man, but he could not quite bring himself to this. Edith was dearer to him now than when she promised him that if Richard sought her hand she would not tell him no, and he felt that he would rather she should die than be thus sacrificed. Anxiously Grace looked after him as he walked rapidly away, thinking within herself that long association with Nina had impaired his reason. And Arthur was more than half insane. Not until now had he been wholly roused to the reality of his position. Dr. Griswold had rent asunder the flimsy veil, showing him how hopeless was his love for Edith, and so, because he could not have her, he must go away. It was a wise decision, and he was strengthened to keep it in spite of Nina's tears that he should stay.

"Nina'll die, or somebody'll die, I know," and the little girl clung sobbing to his neck, when the hour of parting came.

Very gently he unclasped her clinging arms; very tenderly he kissed her lips, bidding her give one to Miggie, and then he left her, turning back ere he reached the gate, as a new idea struck him. Would NINA go with him; go to her Florida home, if so he would defer his journey a day or so. He wondered he had not thought of this before. It would save him effectually, and he anxiously waited her answer.

"If Miggie goes I will, but not without."

This was Nina's reply, and Arthur turned a second time away.

In much surprise, Edith, who came that afternoon, heard of
Arthur's departure.

"Why did he go without bidding me good-bye?" she asked.

"I don't know, but he left a kiss for you right on my lips," said Nina, putting up her rosebud mouth for Edith to take what was unquestionably her own.

While they were thus talking together, the door bell rang, and
Soph, who answered the ring, admitted Dr. Griswold.

"Dr. Griswold here again so soon!" exclaimed Edith, a suspicion crossing her mind that Arthur had arranged for him to take charge of Nina during his absence. "But it shall not be," she thought, "I can prevent her returning to the Asylum, and I will."

She might have spared herself all uneasiness, for Dr. Griswold knew nothing of Arthur's absence, and seemed more surprised than she had been.

"I am so glad, so glad," he said; and when Edith looked inquiringly at him, he answered, "I am glad because it is right that he should go."

Edith did not in the least comprehend his meaning, and as he manifested no intention to explain, the conversation soon turned upon other topics than Arthur and his sudden journey. Since Arthur's visit to Worcester, Dr. Griswold had heard nothing from him, and impelled by one of those strange influences which will sometimes lead a person on to his fate, he had come up to Shannondale partly to see how matters stood and partly to whisper a word of encouragement to one who needed it so much. He had never been very robust or strong; the secret which none save Arthur knew had gradually undermined his health, and he was subject to frequent attacks of what he called his nervous headaches. The slightest cause would sometimes induce one of these, and when on the morning after his arrival at Grassy Spring he awoke from a troubled sleep he knew by certain unmistakable signs that a day of suffering was in store for him. This on his own account he would not have minded particularly, for he was accustomed to it, but his presence was needed at home; and the knowledge of this added to the intensity of his pain, which became so great that to rise from his pillow was impossible, and Soph, when sent to his room to announce that breakfast was waiting, reported him to her mother as "mighty sick with blood in the face."

All the day long he lay in the darkened room, sometimes dreaming, sometimes moaning, and watching through his closed eyes the movements of Nina, who had constituted herself his nurse, treading on tiptoe across the floor, whispering to herself, and apparently carrying on an animated conversation with some imaginary personage. Softly, she bathed his aching head, asking every moment if he were better, and going once behind the door where he heard her praying that "God would make the good doctor well."

Blessed Nina, there was far more need for this prayer than she supposed, for when the next day came, the pain and heat about the eyes and head were not in the least abated, and a physician was called, who pronounced the symptoms to be those of typhoid fever. With a stifled moan, Dr. Griswold turned upon his pillow, while his great, unselfish heart went out after his poor patients in the Asylum, who would miss him so much. Three days passed away, and it was generally known in the village that a stranger lay sick of typhus fever at Grassy Spring, which with common consent was shunned as if the deadly plague had been rioting there. Years before the disease had raged with fearful violence in the town, and many a fresh mound was reared in the graveyard, and many a hearth-stone desolated. This it was which struck a panic to the hearts of the inhabitants when they knew the scourge was again in their midst, and save the inmates of the house, and Edith Hastings, none came to Dr. Griswold's aid. At first Richard refused to let the latter put herself in the way of danger, but for once Edith asserted her right to do as she pleased, and declared that she WOULD share Nina's labors. So for many weary days and nights those two young girls hovered like angels of mercy around the bed where the sick man tossed from side to side, while the fever burned more and more fiercely in his veins until his reason was dethroned, and a secret told which otherwise would have died with him. Gradually the long hidden love for Nina showed itself, and Edith, who alone could comprehend the meaning of what he said and did, saw how a strong, determined man can love, even when there is no hope.

"Little wounded dove," he called the golden-haired maiden, who bent so constantly over him, caressing his burning face with her cool, soft hands, passing her snowy fingers through his disordered hair, and suffering him to kiss her as he often did, but insisting always that MIGGIE should be kissed also, and Edith, knowing that what was like healing to the sick man would be withheld unless she, too, submitted, would sometimes bow her graceful head and receive upon her brow the token of affection.

"You must hug Miggie, too," Nina said to him one day, when he had held her slight form for a moment to his bosom. "She's just as good to you as I am."

"Nina," said Edith, "Dr. Griswold does not love me as he does you, and you must not worry him so. Don't you see it makes him worse?" and lifting the hair she pointed to the drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead.

This seemed to satisfy Nina, while at the same time her darkened mind must have caught a glimmer of the truth, for her manner changed perceptibly, and for a day or so she was rather shy of Dr. Griswold. Then the mood changed again, and to the poor dying man was vouchsafed a glimpse of what it might have been to be loved by Nina Bernard.

"Little sunbeam—little clipped-winged bird—little pearl," were the terms of endearment he lavished upon her, as, with his feeble arm about her, he told her one night how he loved her. "Don't go Edith," he said, as he saw her stealing from the room; "sit down here beside me and listen to what I have to say."

Edith obeyed, and taking her hand and Nina's in his, as if the touch of them both would make him strong to unburden his mind, he began:

"Let me call you Edith, while I'm talking, for the sake of one who loves you even as I love Nina,"

Edith started, and very foolishly replied,

"Do you mean Mr. Harrington?"

She knew he didn't, but her heart was so sore on the subject of Arthur's absence that she longed to be reassured in some way, and so said what she did.

"No, Edith, it is not Mr. Harrington, I mean," and Dr. Griswold's bright eyes fastened themselves upon the trembling girl as if to read her inmost soul, and see how far her feelings were enlisted.

"It's Arthur," said Nina, nodding knowingly at both.

"Arthur," Edith repeated bitterly. "Fine proof he gives of his love. Going from home for an indefinite length of time without one word for me. He hates me, I know," and bursting into tears she buried her face in the lap of Nina, who sat upon the bed.

"Poor Edith!" and another hand than Nina's smoothed her bands of shining hair. "By this one act you have confessed that Arthur's love is not unrequited. I hoped it might be otherwise. God help you, Edith. God help you."

He spoke earnestly, and a thrill of fear ran through Edith's veins. Lifting up her head, she said,

"You talk as if it were a certainty that Arthur St. Claire loves me. He has never told me so—never."

She could not add that he had never given her reason to think so, for he had, and her whole frame quivered with joy as she heard her suspicions confirmed by Dr. Griswold.

"He does love you, Edith Hastings. He has confessed as much to me, and this is why he has gone from home. He would forget you, and it is right. He must forget you; he must not love. It would be a wicked, wicked thing; and Edith—are you listening—do you hear all I say?"

"Yes," came faintly from Nina's lap, where Edith had laid her face again.

"Then promise not to marry him, so long—so long—Oh, Nina, how can I say it? Edith, swear you'll never marry Arthur. Swear, Edith, swear."

His voice was raised to a shriek, and by the dim light of the lamp, which fell upon his pallid features, both Edith and Nina saw the wild delirium flashing from his eye. Nina was the first to detect it, and wringing Edith's hand she whispered, imploringly,

"Swear, Miggie, once. Say THUNDER, or something like that as softly as you can. It won't be so very bad, and he wants you to so much."

Frightened as Edith was at Dr. Griswold's manner she could not repress a smile at Nina's mistaken idea. Still she did NOT swear, and all that night he continued talking incoherently of Arthur, of Edith, of Nina, Geneva, Richard Harrington, and a thousand other matters, mingling them together in such a manner that nothing clear or connected could be made of what he said. In the morning he was more quiet, but there was little hope of his life, the physician said. From the first he had greatly desired to see Arthur once more, and when his danger became apparent a telegram had been forwarded to the wanderer, but brought back no response. Another was sent, and another, the third one, in the form of a letter, finding him far up the Red river, where in that sultry season the air was rife with pestilence, which held with death many a wanton revel, and would surely have claimed him for its victim, but for the timely note which called him away.

Night and day, day and night, as fast as the steam-god could take him, he traveled, his heart swelling with alternate hope and fear as he neared the north-land, seeing from afar the tall heads of the New England mountains, and knowing by that token that he was almost home.

* * * * * *

It was night, dark night at Grassy Spring, and the summer rain, which all the day had fallen in heavy showers, beat drearily against the windows of the room where a fair young girl was keeping watch over the white-faced man whose life was fast ebbing away. They were alone,—Dr. Griswold and Nina—for both would have it so. He, because he felt how infinitely precious to him would be his last few hours with her, when there was no curious ear to listen; and she, because she would have Miggie sleep. Nina knew no languor from wakefulness. She was accustomed to it, and as if imbued with supernatural strength, she had sat night after night in that close room, ministering to the sick man as no one else could have done, and by her faithfulness and tender care repaying him in part for the love which for long, weary years had known no change, and which, as life draw near its close, manifested itself in a desire to have her constantly at his side, where he could look into her eyes, and hear the murmurings of her bird-like voice.

Thus far Edith and the servants had shared her vigils, but this night she preferred to be alone, insisting that Edith, who began to show signs of weariness, should occupy the little room, adjoining, where she could be called, if necessary. Not apprehending death so soon the physician acquiesced in this arrangement, stipulating, however, that Phillis should sleep upon the lounge in Dr. Griswold's chamber, but the care, the responsibility, should all be Nina's, he said, and with childish alacrity she hastened to her post. It was the first time she had kept the watch alone, but from past experience the physician believed she could be trusted, and he left her without a moment's hesitation.

Slowly the hours went by, and Nina heard no sound save the low breathing of the sleepers near, the dropping of the rain, and the mournful sighing of the wind through the maple trees. Midnight came, and then the eyes of the sick man opened wide and wandered about the room as if in quest of some one.

"Nina," he said, faintly, "Are you here? Why has the lamp gone out? It's so dark that I can't see your face."

Bending over him, Nina replied,

"I'm here, doctor. Nina's here. Shall I get more light so you CAN see?"

"Yes, darling, more light—more light;" and swift as a fawn Nina ran noiselessly from room to room, gathering up lamp after lamp, and candle after candle, and bringing them to the sick chamber, which blazed as if on fire, while the musical laugh of the lunatic echoed through the room as she whispered to herself, "Twenty sperm candles and fifteen lamps! 'Tis a glorious watch I keep to-night."

Once she thought of wakening Edith to share in her transports, but was withheld from doing so by a feeling that "Miggie" would not approve her work.

"It's light as noonday," she said, seating herself upon the bedside. "Can't you see me now?"

"No, Nina, I shall never look on your dear face again until we meet in Heaven. There you will be my own. No one can come between us," and the feeble arms wound themselves lovingly around the maiden, who laid her cheek against his feverish one, while her little fingers strayed once more amid the mass of disordered hair, pushing it back from the damp forehead, which she touched with her sweet lips.

"Nina," and the voice was so low that Nina bent her down to catch the sound, "I am dying, darling. You are not afraid to stay with me till the last?"

"No," she answered, "not afraid, but I do so wish you could see the splendid illumination. Twenty candles and fifteen lamps—the wicks of them all an inch in height. Oh, it's grand!" and again Nina chuckled as she saw how the lurid blaze lit up the window panes with a sheet of flame which, flashing backward, danced upon the wall in many a grotesque form, and cast a reddish glow even upon the white face of the dying.

He was growing very restless now, for the last great struggle had commenced; the soul was waging a mighty battle with the body, and the conflict was a terrible one, wringing groans of agony from him and great tears from Nina, who forgot her bonfire in her grief. Once when the fever had scorched her veins and she had raved in mad delirium, Dr. Griswold had rocked her in his arms as he would have rocked a little child, and remembering this the insane desire seized on Nina to rock him, too, to sleep. But she could not lift him up, though she bent every energy to the task, and at last, passing one arm beneath his neck she managed to sit behind him, holding him in such a position that he rested easier, and his convulsive movements ceased entirely. With his head upon her bosom she rocked to and fro, uttering a low, cooing sound, as if soothing him to sleep.

"Sing, Nina, sing," he whispered, and on the night air a mournful cadence rose, swelling sometimes so high that Edith moved uneasily upon her pillow, while even Phillis stretched out a hand as if about to awaken.

Then the music changed to a plaintive German song, and Edith dreamed of Bingen on the Rhine, while Dr. Griswold listened eagerly, whispering at intervals,

"Precious Nina, blessed dove, sing on—sing till I am at rest."

This was sufficient for Nina, and one after another she warbled the wild songs she knew he loved the best, while the lamps upon the table and the candles upon the floor flickered and flamed and cast their light far out into the yard, where the August rain was falling, and where more than one bird, startled from its slumbers, looked up to see whence came the fitful glare, wondering, it may be, at the solemn dirge, floating out into the darkness far beyond the light.

The gray dawn broke at last, and up the graveled walk rapid footsteps came—Arthur St. Claire hastening home. From a distant hill he had caught the blaze of Nina's bonfire, and trembling with fear and dread, he hurried on to learn what it could mean. There was no stir about the house—no sign of life, only the crimson blaze shining across the fields, and the sound of a voice, feeble now, and sunk almost to a whisper, for Nina's strength was giving way. For hours she had sung, while the head upon her bosom pressed more and more heavily—the hand which clasped hers unloosed its hold—the eyes which had fastened themselves upon her with a look of unutterable love, closed wearily—the lips, which, so long as there was life in them, ceased not to bless her, were still, and poor, tired, crazy Nina, fancying that he slept at last, still swayed back and forth, singing to the cold senseless clay, an infant lullaby.

"Hushaby, my baby—go to sleep, my child."

HE had sung it once to her. SHE sang it now to him, and the strange words fell on Arthur's ear, even before he stepped across the threshold, where he stood appalled at the unwonted spectacle which met his view. Nina manifested no surprise whatever, but holding up her finger, motioned him to tread cautiously, if he would come near where she was.

"He couldn't see," she whispered, "and I made him a famous light. Isn't it glorious here, smoke, and fire and all? He is sleeping quietly now, only his head is very heavy. It makes my arm ache so hard, and his hands are growing cold, I cannot kiss them warm," and she held the stiffening fingers against her burning cheek, shuddering at the chill they gave her, just as Arthur shuddered at the sight, for it needed nothing more to tell him that Dr. Griswold was dead!