ce becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered t I migtingly; and I began gently to  ched me closer.

    “No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I ouc t of your presence—tness of your consolation: I cannot give up ttle left in myself—I must  it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it isfied, or it ake deadly vengeance on its frame.”

    “ell, sir, I ay h you: I have said so.”

    “Yes—but you understand one taying and anoto be about my o  on me as a kind little nurse (for you ionate  and a generous spirit, o make sacrifices for ty), and t ougo suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I sertain none but fatell me.”

    “I  you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if you t better.”

    “But you cannot al: you are young—you must marry one day.”

    “I don’t care about being married.”

    “You s: if I ry to make you care—but—a sightless block!”

    o gloom. I, on trary, became more cook fres  y  quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

    “It is time some one undertook to reing  locks; “for I see you are being metamorpo a lion, or somet sort. You  you, t is certain: your , I  yet noticed.”

    “On tilated limb from , and s to me. “It is a mere stump—a gly sig you think so, Jane?”

    “It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and t of it is, one is in danger of loving you too oo much of you.”

    “I t you ed, Jane, wrised visage.”

    “Did you? Don’t tell me so—lest I so your