It was always a weakness with me that certain thoughts preyed on me. I
was always singularly feeble in laying hold of an idea, and in the
ability to compel myself to dwell upon a thing for any lengthened
period in continuous exhaustive reflection. But, nevertheless, ideas
would frequently lay hold of me with such relentless tenacity that I
was passive in their grasp. So it was about this time with death and
immortality, and I watched eagerly Mardon's behaviour when the end had
to be faced. As I have said, he was altogether calm. I did not like
to question him while he was so unwell, because I knew that a
discussion would arise which I could not control, and it might disturb
him, but I would have given anything to understand what was passing in
his mind.

During his sickness I was much impressed by Mary's manner of nursing
him. She was always entirely wrapped up in her father, so much so,
that I had often doubted if she could survive him; but she never
revealed any trace of agitation. Under the pressure of the calamity
which had befallen her, she showed rather increased steadiness, and
even a cheerfulness which surprised me. Nothing went wrong in the
house. Everything was perfectly ordered, perfectly quiet, and she rose
to a height of which I had never suspected her capable, while her
father's stronger nature was allowed to predominate. She was
absolutely dependent on him. If he did not get well she would be
penniless, and I could not help thinking that with the like chance
before me, to say nothing of my love for him and anxiety lest he should
die, I should be distracted, and lose my head; more especially if I had
to sit by his bed, and spend sleepless nights such as fell to her lot.
But she belonged to that class of natures which, although delicate and
fragile, rejoice in difficulty. Her grief for her father was