The first step in Philip's declension happened in this way. Sylvia

had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now she seemed at a

stationary point of weakness; wakeful nights succeeding to languid

days. Occasionally she caught a little sleep in the afternoons, but

she usually awoke startled and feverish.

One afternoon Philip had stolen upstairs to look at her and his

child; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness made the

door creak on its hinges as he opened it. The woman employed to

nurse her had taken the baby into another room that no sound might

rouse her from her slumber; and Philip would probably have been

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warned against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping had

he been perceived by the nurse. As it was, he opened the door, made

a noise, and Sylvia started up, her face all one flush, her eyes

wild and uncertain; she looked about her as if she did not know

where she was; pushed the hair off her hot forehead; all which

actions Philip saw, dismayed and regretful. But he kept still,

hoping that she would lie down and compose herself. Instead she

stretched out her arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of

yearning and tears,-'Oh! Charley! come to me--come to me!' and then as she more fully

became aware of the place where she was, her actual situation, she

sank back and feebly began to cry. Philip's heart boiled within him;

any man's would under the circumstances, but he had the sense of

guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. Her

weak cry after another man, too, irritated him, partly through his

anxious love, which made him wise to know how much physical harm she

was doing herself. At this moment he stirred, or unintentionally

made some sound: she started up afresh, and called out,-'Oh, who's theere? Do, for God's sake, tell me who yo' are!' 'It's me,' said Philip, coming forwards, striving to keep down the

miserable complication of love and jealousy, and remorse and anger,

that made his heart beat so wildly, and almost took him out of

himself. Indeed, he must have been quite beside himself for the

time, or he could never have gone on to utter the unwise, cruel

words he did. But she spoke first, in a distressed and plaintive

tone of voice.

'Oh, Philip, I've been asleep, and yet I think I was awake! And I

saw Charley Kinraid as plain as iver I see thee now, and he wasn't

drowned at all. I'm sure he's alive somewheere; he were so clear and

life-like. Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?' She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged by passionate

feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to quench the

agitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, hardly knowing

what he said.




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