“As you insist upon it,” he remarked, “I make no further opposition to her remaining, but I think it an imposition on your benevolence that your home shall be made gloomy by my wife being in it.”

“Not in the least gloomy, sir,” replied the doctor, “nor do I think it the slightest imposition upon my benevolence.  Were it only to repay the debt Harry owes you for the preservation of his life, I should insist upon her not being removed.  But I deem it a duty we owe to our suffering fellow mortals, and as long as she remains in her present state, so long will she be an inmate of my house, and everything that can lighten and ameliorate her unhappy condition shall be deemed a pleasant business to perform.”

“I do not doubt it, sir,” said Alfred, grasping the doctor’s hand and shaking it heartily, “believe me, the attention of your daughter, Harry and yourself, has been the oasis in my present desert of life, and though in a few short weeks I expect all will be over, and she will no longer need your care, the memory of your kindness in these gloomy times of sorrow, shall ever remain unfading in memory, and shall always be spoken of and thought of with the greatest gratitude.”

“No gratitude is necessary,” answered the doctor as he returned the pressure of Alfred Wentworth’s hand, “I consider myself performing a sacred duty, both to God and to humanity, and no gratitude is needed for the faithful performance of the same.”

“No, no sir,” interrupted Alfred, hastily, “it is no duty, and cannot be looked upon as such—­at least by me.”

“Well, well,” remarked the doctor, “we will not argue about that.  I only wish it were in my power to do more by giving you assurance that your wife will recover, but I fear very much she never can.”

“How long do you suppose she will linger?” asked Alfred sadly.

“I cannot tell,” replied the doctor, “Her strength has been failing very rapidly for the past week, and I do not think she can last much longer.”

“Could nothing be done to keep her alive, if even it were as a maniac?” he inquired, and then added, and as he spoke, repressing the emotion he felt, “Could she but live, it would be some solace to me, for then I should have her with me, and by procuring a position in some of the departments, be enabled to remain with her; but the idea of her dying—­it is that which saddens me and almost makes me curse the hour I left her.  My poor, darling wife!”

The last words were uttered as if he were speaking to himself, and the tone of sorrow in which he spoke touched Dr. Humphries deeply.

“Bear with fortitude the dispensations of a Divine Providence,” said the old gentleman.  “If He has willed that your wife shall die, you must bow humbly to the decree.  Time will assuage your grief and remove from your mind, this sad—­too sad fate that has befallen her.”

“If you think that time can assuage my grief,” replied Alfred, “you greatly underrate the strength of my affection.  When a mere stripling, I first met my wife, and from that hour all the affection I possessed was hers.  Each day it grew stronger, and at the time I left New Orleans with my regiment, the love I bore my wife, and for her, my children, could not have been bartered for the wealth of California.  She was to me a dearer object than all else on earth, and more—­”