Such now was their resumed sway with Munro.  While his niece—­the young, the beautiful, the virtuous—­so endowed by nature—­so improved by education—­so full of those fine graces, beyond the reach of any art—­lay before him insensible—­her fine mind spent in incoherent ravings—­her gentle form racked with convulsive shudderings—­the still, small, monitorial voice, unheard so long, spoke out to him in terrible rebukings.  He felt in those moments how deeply he had been a criminal; how much, not of his own, he had appropriated to himself and sacrificed; and how sacred a trust he had abused, in the person of the delicate creature before him, by a determination the most cruel and perhaps unnecessary.

Days had elapsed in her delirium; and such were his newly-awakened feelings, that each night brought him, though at considerable risk, an attendant by her bed.  His hand administered—­his eyes watched over; and, in the new duties of the parent, he acquired a new feeling of duty and domestic love, the pleasures of which he had never felt before.  But she grew conscious at last, and her restoration relieved his mind of one apprehension which had sorely troubled it.  Her condition, during her illness, was freely described to her.  But she thought not of herself—­she had no thought for any other than the one for whom thoughts and prayers promised now to avail but little.

“Uncle—­” she spoke at last—­“you are here, and I rejoice to see you.  I have much to say, much to beg at your hands:  oh, let me not beg in vain!  Let me not find you stubborn to that which may not make me happy—­I say not that, for happy I never look to be again—­but make me as much so as human power can make me.  When—­” and she spoke hurriedly, while a strong and aguish shiver went through her whole frame—­“when is it said that he must die?”

He knew perfectly of whom she spoke, but felt reluctant to indulge her mind in a reference to the subject which had already exercised so large an influence over it.  But he knew little of the distempered heart, and fell into an error by no means uncommon with society.  She soon convinced him of this, when his prolonged silence left it doubtful whether he contemplated an answer.

“Why are you silent? do you fear to speak?  Have no fears now.  We have no time for fear.  We must be active—­ready—­bold.  Feel my hand:  it trembles no longer.  I am no longer a weak-hearted woman.”

He again doubted her sanity, and spoke to her soothingly, seeking to divert her mind to indifferent subjects; but she smiled on the endeavor, which she readily understood, and putting aside her aunt, who began to prattle in a like strain, and with a like object, she again addressed her uncle.