We need not say how sad and depressed Martin was, on turning away from the house, without the chance of seeing Mary, under the idea, too, of her dangerous illness.  He called about ten o’clock the next morning, and learned that she was no better; that the doctor had been there, and pronounced her in a low nervous fever.  Strict injunctions had been left that no one should be admitted to her room but the necessary attendants.

Regularly every morning and evening Martin called to ask after Mary, for the space of fifteen days, and always received the sad information that she was no better.  His feelings had now become intensely excited.  He blamed himself for having favored the idea of Mary’s going to learn a trade.

“How easily I might have prevented it!” he said to himself.  “How blind I was to her true worth!  How much suffering and toil I might have saved her!”

On the evening of the sixteenth day, he received the glad intelligence that Mary was better.  That although greatly emaciated, and feeble as an infant, a decidedly healthy action had taken place, and the (sic) docter expressed confident hopes of her recovery.

“May I not see her, Mrs. Turner?” he asked, earnestly.

“Not yet, Mr. Martin, The doctor is positive in his directions to have her kept perfectly quiet.”

Martin had, of course, to acquiesce, but with great reluctance.  For five days more he continued to call in twice every day, and each time found her slightly improved.

“May I not see her now?” he again asked, at the end of these additional days of anxious self-denial.

“If you will not talk to her,” said Mrs. Turner.

Martin promised, and was shown up to her chamber.  His heart sickened as he approached the bed-side, and looked upon the thin, white, almost expressionless face, and sunken eye, of her who was now the ruler of his affections.  He took her hand, that returned a feeble, almost imperceptible pressure, but did not trust himself to utter her name.  She hardly seemed conscious of his presence, and he soon turned away, sad, very sad, yet full of hope for her recovery.

The healthy action continued, and in a week Mary could bear conversation.  As soon as she could begin to sit up, Martin passed every evening with her, and seeing, as he now did, with different eyes, he perceived in her a hundred things to admire that had before escaped his notice.  Recovering rapidly, in a month she was fully restored to health, and looked better than she had for years.

Just about this time, as Martin was making up his mind to declare himself her lover, he was surprised, on entering their parlor one evening, to find on the table a large brass door-plate, with the words, “MARY TURNER, FANCY DRESS MAKER,” engraved upon it.

“Why, what are you going to do with this Mary?” he asked, forgetting that she did not know his peculiar thoughts about her.

“I am going to commence my business,” she replied in a quiet tone.  “I have learned a trade, and now I must turn it, if possible, to some good account.”