With his convalescence his right mind returned to him; but he felt as he did when he awoke to consciousness in Mother Clemm’s bed-chamber in Baltimore—­that he had been down into the grave and back again.  Only—­then there was no remorse—­no fiercely accusing conscience to make him wish from his soul that he might have remained in the abyss.

* * * * *

In dressing-gown and slippers he sat—­weak and tremulous—­in an arm-chair drawn close to the open fire in the cottage sitting-room.  About him hovered his two angels, anticipating his every need, pausing at his side now and again to bestow a delicate caress.  Virginia was more beautiful since her illness.  Her face and figure had lost their plumpness and with it their childish curves—­but a something exalted and ethereal had taken their place.  Her eyes were softer, more wistful than ever.  Through her fair, transparent skin glowed the faintest, most exquisite bloom.  Her harp was mute.  Her singing voice was gone.  But the deep, low tones of her speaking voice, full of restrained feeling, could only be compared by her husband to the melodious voice of the dream-woman, “Ligeia.”  They recalled to him the impression that the voice of the priest as he read the funeral rite over his dead mother had made upon his infant mind—­the impression of spoken music.  His Virginia could no longer sing, but every word that fell from her lips was music.

As she and her tall, nun-like mother quietly stepped about the rooms ministering to his comfort, lifting the work of preparing the simple meals, mending the fire, and keeping the rooms bright into a sacred rite by the grace, the care, the dignity with which it was performed, no word, no look escaped either save of tenderness, patience, and boundless love.  All the reproaches came from within his own breast—­from that inner self that boldly tearing the veil from his deeds filled him with loathing of himself.

The years, his troubles, and his illness, had wrought a great change in him—­outwardly.  The dark ringlets that framed his face were still untouched with rime, and the dark grey eyes were as vivid, as ever-varying in expression as before, but the large brow wore a furrow and over it and the clear-cut features and the emaciated cheeks was a settled pallor.  The face was still very beautiful, but in repose it was melancholy and about the mouth there was a touch of bitterness.  The illumining smile still flashed out at times, and filled all his countenance with sweetness and light—­but it was rarer than formerly.

He had many reasons for being happy—­for being thankful.  The genius with which he was conscious he was endowed in larger measure than others of his generation was being recognized.  He had fame—­growing fame—­and money enough for his needs.  He had what was as necessary to his soul as meat was to his body—­the love of a woman who understood him in all his moods and who was beautiful enough in mind and in body and pure enough in spirit for him to worship as well as to love—­to satisfy his soul as well as his senses.  And this woman, at the very moment when he thought himself about to lose her forever, had been given back to him—­given back clothed upon with a finer a more exquisite beauty than she had possessed before.