of my heart, thy tears are mingled with mine.  Thou lamentest with me that guardian angel, whose last embrace I yet feel, whose noble look I yet behold; perhaps it is thou whom he has chosen for my comforter—­perhaps—­” “No, no,” cried Corinne; “he has not thought me worthy of it.”  “What is it you say?” interrupted Oswald.  Corinne was alarmed at having revealed what she so much wished to conceal, and repeated what had escaped her, in another form, saying—­“He would not think me worthy of it!”—­This phrase, so altered, dissipated the disquietude which the first had excited in the heart of Oswald, and he continued, undisturbed by any fears, to discourse with Corinne concerning his father.

The physicians arrived and dissipated somewhat the alarm of Corinne; but they absolutely forbade Lord Nelville to speak till the ruptured blood-vessel was perfectly closed.  For a period of six whole days Corinne never quitted Oswald, and prevented him from uttering a word, gently imposing silence upon him whenever he wished to speak.  She found the art of varying the hours by reading, music, and sometimes by a conversation of which the burden was supported by herself alone; now serious, now playful, her animation of spirits kept up a continual interest.  All this charming and amiable attention concealed that disquietude which internally preyed upon her, and which it was so necessary to conceal from Lord Nelville; though she herself did not cease one instant to be a martyr to it.  She perceived almost before Oswald himself what he suffered, nor was she deceived by the courage he exerted to conceal it; she always anticipated everything that would be likely to relieve him; only endeavouring to fix his attention as little as possible upon her assiduous cares for him.  However, when Oswald turned pale, the colour would also abandon the lips of Corinne; and her hands trembled when stretched to his assistance; but she struggled immediately to appear composed, and often smiled when her eyes were suffused with tears.  Sometimes she pressed the hand of Oswald against her heart, as if she would willingly impart to him her own life.  At length her cares succeeded, and Oswald recovered.

“Corinne,” said he to her, as soon as he was permitted to speak:  “why has not Mr Edgermond, my friend, witnessed the days which you have spent by my bedside?  He would have seen that you are not less good than admirable; he would have seen that domestic life with you is a scene of continual enchantment, and that you only differ from every other woman, by adding to every virtue the witchery of every charm.  No, it is too much—­this internal conflict which rends my heart, and that has just brought me to the brink of the grave, must cease.  Corinne, thou shalt know my secrets though thou concealest from me thine—­and thou shalt decide upon our fate.”—­“Our fate,” answered Corinne, “if you feel as I do, is never to part.  But will you believe me that, till now, I have not dared even entertain a wish to be your