Elsie was better that morning. When the physician arrived he pronounced her much improved, and confessed to Mellen that he had at first feared an attack upon the brain, but he believed now it was only the result of a severe nervous paroxysm. This time he made no inquiries of Mellen concerning his wife; the manner in which they had been received on the previous day did not invite a renewal of the subject.

Elsie was eager to get up, after her usual habit, the moment she began to feel better; but the doctor ordered her to lie in bed, at least for that day.

"But I want to get up so badly," said she, when her brother returned to the chamber; "I am so tired of lying here."

"Just have patience for to-day; the doctor would not allow the least exertion."

"He's a cross old thing!" pouted Elsie, with a faint return to her old manner, which made Mellen both sigh and smile.

"You will soon be able to put him at defiance. But, indeed, you are so weak now you could not attempt too much."

"Oh, that's nonsense! I don't believe anything about it. You shall stay here with me; if I have to be kept prisoner I will hold you fast, too."

"There is no fear of my attempting to leave the room," he replied.

Elsie felt much improved. She sat up in bed, made her brother play at various games of cards with her, talked and looked herself again.

But into the conversation, in which Mellen did his best to hold a share, there crept some chance mention of that name which those walls must no longer hear. It fell from Elsie's lips thoughtlessly, and at once dispelled her faint attempt at cheerfulness, throwing her into the gloom which she had succeeded in shutting out for a little time.

"Did you write that letter, Grant?" she asked, quickly.

"Yes; I sent it down to the village, to go by the morning's mail."

"Thank you, Grant, thank you!"

She attempted to console herself with thinking she had done something in Elizabeth's behalf, but when her conscience compared it with all that she ought to have done, her coward heart shrank back at the contrast.

"I am tired of cards," she said, sweeping the bits of pasteboard off the bed with one of her abrupt movements, which would have been rude in another, but seemed graceful and childish in her. "Cards are stupid things at the best!"

Mellen patiently collected the scattered pack and laid it away, trying to think of some other means of relieving her ennui.

"Shall I read to you?" he asked.

"I don't believe I could listen," she said, tossing her head wearily about. "I don't know—just try."

There was a pile of new novels and magazines on the table in the centre of the room, for Elsie always kept herself liberally supplied with these sources of distraction, though it must be confessed that she generally carried the recreation to an extreme, reading her romance to the exclusion of more solid studies, just as she preferred nibbling bon-bons, to eating substantial food.

"There certainly is opportunity for a choice," Mellen said, glancing at the pile. "What book will you choose?"

"Oh, bring a magazine; read me some short story."

Mellen seated himself, opened the periodical and commenced reading the first tale he lighted upon. It was a story by a popular author, beginning in a light, pleasant way, and promising the amusement his listener needed. But as the little romance went on it deepened into a pathetic tragedy. It was an account of a noble-born Sicilian woman who, during the Revolution, endured, silently, every species of suffering, at last death itself, rather than betray her husband to his enemies, yet the husband had bitterly wronged her and half-broken her heart during their married life.

Elsie did not listen at first, but as the story went on her thoughts became so painful that she tried to fasten her attention upon the reading. When she began to take notice Mellen was just in the midst of the account of this Sicilian woman's martyrdom in prison, bearing up with such serene patience, faithful to her vow, firm in her determination to save the man who had injured her.

Elsie fairly snatched the volume from his hand.

"Don't read it!" she exclaimed. "What made you choose such a doleful thing; it makes my flesh creep."

He saw the change which had come over her face, and reproached himself for his carelessness in having chosen so sad a tale; but the truth was, in his absorption, he had not the slightest idea of what he was reading, his voice sounded in his own ears mechanical, and as if it belonged to some other person.

He went to the table to make a more fortunate selection.

"Here is a volume of parodies," he said, "shall I try those?"

"Anything; I don't care."

He commenced a mischievous travestie of a poem, but though it was wittily done, its lightness jarred so terribly on both reader and listener that it was speedily thrown aside. For some time they remained in gloomy silence, then Elsie began to moan and move restlessly about, then Mellen tried to rouse himself and be cheerful again.

The afternoon passed very much in the same way. At last Elsie declared that she would sleep awhile.

"Anything to wear away the time!" she said.

Mellen wondered if he should ever find anything that would shorten the hours to him, but he held his peace.

"I have such an odd, horrible feeling," said Elsie; "just as if I were waiting anxiously for something—every instant expecting it."

"That is because you are nervous."

"Perhaps so," she said, fretfully.

He was waiting. Henceforth life would be but one long waiting just for revenge, then to be free from the dull pressure of this existence.

"How white you are!" Elsie said suddenly. "I don't believe you have slept at all."

It was true. For nights Mellen had not closed his eyes, but he felt no approach towards drowsiness even now.

"You will fall sick!" cried Elsie. "What shall I do then?"

"Don't be afraid; I am well and strong."

He said the words with a loathing bitterness of his own ability to endure.

The more powerful his physical organization, the more years of loneliness and pain would be left for him to bear. His mind flew on to the future; he pictured the long, long course towards old age; the dreary lapse of time which would bring only a cold exterior over his sufferings, like a crust of lava hardening above the volcanic fires beneath.

"Don't sit so, looking at nothing," cried Elsie.

"Yes, dear. There, do you think you can go to sleep?"

"I won't try, unless you go to sleep too. Draw the sofa up by the bed and lie down."

He obeyed her command, willing to gratify her least caprice. She gave him one of her pillows, threw a part of the counterpane over him, and made him lie there, holding fast to his hand, afraid to be alone, even in her dreams.

"Do you feel sleepy, Grant?" she asked, after a pause.

"Perhaps so; I am resting, at all events."

"Don't you remember when I was sick once, years ago, I never would sleep unless I held your hand?"

"Yes, dear."

How far back the time looked—he had been a mere youth then—what a fearful waste lay between that season and the present!

Suddenly Elsie started up again.

"You sent the letter, Grant?"

"Yes, yes; be content."

She was so much afraid even to sleep, that it relieved her to turn her last waking thoughts upon some little good she was doing Elizabeth.

"Good-night, now," she said; "I can go to sleep. Kiss my hand, Grant. You love me, don't you?"

"Always, darling, always; nothing can part you and me."

She fell away into a tranquil slumber, and Mellen lay for a long time watching her repose; it was a brief season of peace to her, for burning thoughts had not followed her into her dreams.

The extreme quiet, the sight of her placid face soothed him imperceptibly. A dreary weakness began to make itself felt after that long continued excitement. At length the lids drooped over his eyes, and he slept almost as profoundly as Elsie herself. For a long time there was no sound in the chamber; the brother and sister lay slumbering while the day wore on and the twilight crept slowly around.

When Elsie awoke it was to rouse him with the cry which had been so often on her lips during the previous day—

"Bessie, Bessie!"

He started up, spoke to her, and his voice brought her back to the reality.

"I was so happy," she moaned; "I dreamed that Bessie and I were gathering pond lilies—she was wreathing them about my head—then just as I woke I saw a snake sting her—before that it was all bright. Oh, dear, if I could only sleep forever!"