Often, now, I thought of a passage in an old book I used to read with many a heart-quake in my girlish days.  It ran thus:—­“Perhaps we may see you flattering yourself, through a long, lingering illness, that you shall still recover, and putting off any serious reflection and conversation for fear it should overset your spirits.  And the cruel kindness of friends and physicians, as if they were in league with Satan to make the destruction of your soul as sure as possible, may, perhaps, abet this fatal deceit.”  We had all the needed accessories:  the kind physician, anxious to amuse and fearful to alarm his patient,—­telling me always to keep up his spirits, to make him as cheerful and happy as I could; and the cruel friends—­I had not far to seek for them.

For a time William came down-stairs every morning, and sat up during the greater part of the day.  Then he took to lying on the sofa for hours together.  At last, he did not rise till afternoon, and even then was too much fatigued to sit up long.  I prepared for his use a large room on the south side of the house, with a smaller apartment within it; to this we carried his favorite books and pictures, his easy-chair and lounge.  My piano stood in a recess; a guitar hung near it.  When all was finished, it looked homelike, pleasant; and we removed William to it, one mild February day.

“This is a delightful room,” he said, gazing about him.  “How pleasant the view from these windows will be as spring comes on!”

“You will not need it,” I said, “by that time.”

“I should be glad, if it were so,” he replied; “but I am not quite so sanguine as you are, Juanita.”

He did not guess my meaning; how should he, amused, flattered, kept along as he had been?  To him, life, with all its activities, its prizes, its pleasures, seemed but a little way removed; a few weeks or months and he should be among them again.  But I knew, when he entered that room, that he never would go forth again till he was borne where narrower walls and a lowlier roof should shut him in.

I had an alarm one day.  “Juanita,” said the invalid, when I had arranged his pillows comfortably, and was about to begin the morning’s reading, “do not take the book we had yesterday.  I wish you would read to me in the Bible.”

What did this mean?  Was this proud, worldly-minded man going to humble himself, and repent, and be forgiven?  And was I to be defrauded thus of my just revenge?  Should he pass away to an eternal life of holiness and joy,—­while I, stained through him and for his sake with sins innumerable, sank ever lower and lower in unending misery and despair?  Oh, I must stop this, if it were not yet too late.

“What!” I said, pretending to repress a smile, “are you getting alarmed about yourself, William?  Or is Saul really going to be found among the prophets, after all?”

He colored, but made no reply.  I opened the Bible and read two or three of the shorter Psalms,—­then, from the New Testament, a portion of the Sermon on the Mount.