I had little to do with the care of the invalid; that devolved on Jo; my offers of service were kindly received, but always declined.  Nobody could read to him so well as Miss Boyle.  Nobody else understood his moods, his humors, his whims; she knew his tastes with ominous exactness.  It was she who arranged his meals on the salver with such care and grace, nay, even cooked them at times; for Jo believed, like a rational woman, that intellect and cultivation increase one’s capacity for every office,—­that a woman of intelligence should be able to excel an ignorant servant in every household duty, by just so much as she excels her in mind.  In fact, this was a pleasant life to two persons, but harassing enough for me.  Had I been confident of Arthur Waring’s integrity, I should have regarded him with friendly and cordial interest; but I had every reason to distrust him.  I perceived he had so far insinuated himself into Jo’s confidence, that his whole artillery of expressive looks, broken sentences, even caresses, were received by her with entire good faith; but when I asked her seriously if I was to regard Mr. Waring as her lover, she burst into indignant denial, colored scarlet, and was half inclined to be angry with me,—­though a certain tremulous key, into which her usually sweet and steady voice broke while she declared he had never spoken to her of love, it was only friendship, witnessed against her that she was apprehensive, sad, perhaps visited with a tinge of that causeless shame which even in a pure and good woman conventionality constrains, when she has loved a man before he says in plain English, “I love you,” though every act and look and tone of his may have carried that significance unmistakably for years.  Thank God, there is a day of sure judgment coming, when conventions and shields of usage will save no man from the due vengeance of truth upon falsehood, justice upon smooth and plausible duplicity!

In due time Mr. Waring recovered.  If there was any change in his manner to Jo, it was too slight to be seen, though it was felt, and was, after all, the carelessness of a person certain of his foothold in her good graces, rather than the evident withdrawal of attention,—­which I could have pardoned even then, had it been the result of honest regret for past carelessness, and stern resolution to repair that past.  Whatever it was, Jo perceived that her ideal man was become a real man; but, with a tenacity of nature, for which in my fate-telling I had not given her credit, she was as constant to the substance as she had been to the dream; and while she lost both health and spirits in the contemplation of Arthur Waring’s fitful and heedless manner toward her, and was evidently pained by the discovery of his selfish and politic traits,—­to call them by no harsher name,—­it was inexpressibly touching to hear the excuses she made for him, to see the all-shielding love with which she veiled his faults, and kept him as a mother would keep her graceless, yet dearest child from animadversion and reproach.