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
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