“He raves continually of you, madam,” said the attendant, “and I have no doubt he will expire with your name on his lips.”

Amabel was moved to tears by the information, and withdrawing into a corner of the room, prayed fervently for the supposed sufferer.  Prudence gazed at her earnestly and compassionately, and muttering something to herself, quitted the room.  The next day was the critical one (so it was said) for the earl, and Amabel awaited, in tearful anxiety, the moment that was to decide his fate.  It came, and he was pronounced out of danger.  When the news was brought the anxious girl, she fainted.

A week passed, and the earl, continued to improve, and all danger of infection—­if any such existed—­being at an end, he sent a message to Amabel, beseeching her to grant him an interview in his own room.  She willingly assented, and, following the attendant, found him stretched upon a couch.  In spite of his paleness and apparent debility, however, his good looks were but little impaired, and his attire, though negligent, was studiously arranged for effect.  On Amabel’s appearance he made an effort to rise, but she hastened to prevent him.  After thanking her for her kind inquiries, he entered into a long conversation with her, in the course of which he displayed sentiments so exactly coinciding with her own, that the good opinion she had already begun to entertain for him was soon heightened into the liveliest interest.  They parted, to meet again on the following day—­and on the day following that.  The bloom returned to the earl’s countenance, and he looked handsomer than ever.  A week thus passed, and at the end of it, he said—­“To-morrow I shall be well enough to venture forth again, and my first business shall be to proceed to your father, and see whether he is now able to receive you.”

“The plague has not yet abated, my lord,” she observed, blushingly.

“True,” he replied, looking passionately at her.  “Oh, forgive me, Amabel,” he added, taking her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw.  “Forgive me, if I am wrong.  But I now think your feelings are altered towards me, and that I may venture to hope you will be mine?”

Amabel’s bosom heaved with emotion.  She tried to speak, but could not.  Her head declined upon his shoulder, and her tears flowed fast.  “I am answered,” he cried, scarcely able to contain his rapture, and straining her to his bosom.

“I know not whether I am doing rightly,” she murmured, gazing at him through her tears, “but I believe you mean me truly.  God forgive you if you do not.”

“Have no more doubts,” cried the earl.  “You have wrought an entire change in me.  Our union shall not be delayed an hour.  It shall take place in Saint Saviour’s to-night.”

“Not to-night,” cried Amabel, trembling at his eagerness—­“to-morrow.”

“To-night, to-night!” reiterated the earl, victoriously.  And he rushed out of the room.