you want to go," sobbed Mrs. Gray, at long,
long intervals. "Go to your lover, he is the
first consideration now."

"Dear mamma, why do you say such
terrible things?" said the girl, soothingly.
"What has come to you?"

"If you loved me," sighed Mrs. Gray, "you
would act differently!"

At this moment Herbert Gray and Doctor
Melville entered. Having examined the
patient, the doctor at once said,

"You have done everything, Miss Isabel,
like the most experienced nurse. You
deserve great praise. Had you been less capable
or less self-possessed, your mother might have
lost her life."

He said this to comfort the patient; but
she turned away sadly, and murmured,

"My child does not love me; she has done
her duty; but duty is not love!"

Mrs. Gray recovered from this phase of her
illness only to fall into another more dangerous.
In a few weeks she was pronounced in
a deep decline, which might last for some
years, or be ended in comparatively a few days
—one of those lingering and capricious forms
of consumption, that keeps every one in a
kind of suspense, than which the most painful
certainty would be better.

Of course Isabel's marriage was postponed
to an indefinite time, and Charles Houghton
murmured sadly, as was natural. He proved
to Isabel in most conclusive logic, that the
kindest thing she could do for her mother,
and the most convincing proof of love she
could give her, was to marry him at once, and
then she would have a great deal more time
to attend on her; for now his visits took up
so much time, and all that would be saved.
His logic failed; and then he got very
angry. So that between her mother and her
lover, the girl's life was not spent among
roses. She went on, however, doing her duty
steadily; turning neither to the right hand
nor to the left, but acting as she felt to be
right.

Her mother's querulous complaints used
always to be most severe after some terrible
scene with Charles, when perhaps he had
been beseeching Isabel not to kill him with
delay.

One day Charles came to the house, looking
very pale.

"You are ill!" she said, anxiously.

"I am, Isabel, very ill."

She took his hand and caressed it in both
her own, looking fondly into his face. He
left his hand quite passive. To say the truth
frankly, although he looked ill he looked also
sulky.

"Can I do anything for you?"

"Everything, Isabel," he said abruptly—
"Marry me."

She tried to smile, but her lover's gravity
chilled her.

"You can do all for me, and you do
nothing."

"I will do all I can. But if a greater
duty—"

"A greater duty!" Charles interrupted.
"What greater duty can you have than to
the man you love and who loves you, and
whose wife you have promised to be!"

"But Charley, if I were your wife, I should
then have, indeed, no greater duty than your
happiness. As it is, I have more sacred ties—
though none dearer," she added in her
gentlest voice.

"I also have superior duties, Isabel."

She started: but after a moment's pause
she said,

"Certainly." The young man watching
her face intently.

"And how will you feel, Isabel, when I
place those ties far above your love, and all
I owe you, and all that we have vowed
together?"

"Nothing unkind towards you, Charles,"
Isabel answered, her heart failing her at the
accusing tone of her lover's voice.

"But Isabel, you will not let me go alone!"
he cried, passionately. "You cannot have the
heart to separate from me—perhaps for ever!"

He threw his arms round her.

"Go alone—separate—what do you mean?
Are you going anywhere? or are you only
trying me?"

"Trying you, my dear Isabel?—no, I am
too sadly in earnest!"

"What do you mean then?" tears filling
her eyes.

"You know that my father's affairs have
been rather embarrassed lately?"

"No," she said, speaking very rapidly.

"Yes, his West India property is almost a
wreck. He has just lost his agent of yellow
fever, and must send out some one
immediately to manage the estate. It is all he has
to live on, unless he has saved something—
and I don't think, he has—when he can no
longer practice at the bar. It is too important
to be lost."

"Well Charles?"

"I must go."

There was a deep pause. Isabel's slight
fingers closed nervously on the hand in hers;
she made a movement as if she would have
held him nearer to her.

"And now what will you do, my Isabel?
will you suffer me to go alone; will you let
me leave you, perhaps for ever certainly for
years without the chance of meeting you
again, and with many chances of death?
Will you virtually break your engagement,
and give me back my heart, worn, and dead,
and broken; or will you brave the world
with me, become my wife, and share my
fortunes?"

"Charles; how can I leave my mother,
when every day may be her last; yet when,
by proper care and management, she may live
years longer? What can I do?"

"Come with me. Listen to the voice of
your own heart, and become my wife."