of their unhappy dissension. Nor from that night did he once give way
to whatever might be his more agonised and fierce emotions--he never
affected to reproach himself--he never bewailed with a vain despair
their approaching separation. Whatever it cost him, he stood collected
and stoical in the intense power of his self control. He had but one
object, one desire, one hope--to save the last hours of Florence
Lascelles from every pang--to brighten and smooth the passage across the
Solemn Bridge. His forethought, his presence of mind, his care, his
tenderness, never forsook him for an instant: they went beyond the
attributes of men, they went into all the fine, the indescribable
minutiae by which woman makes herself, "in pain and anguish," the
"ministering angel." It was as if he had nerved and braced his whole
nature to one duty--as if that duty were more felt than affection
itself--as if he were resolved that Florence should not remember that
/she had no mother/!

And, oh, then, how Florence loved him! how far more luxurious, in its
grateful and clinging fondness, was that love, than the wild and jealous
fire of their earlier connection! Her own character, as is often the
case in lingering illness, became incalculably more gentle and softened
down, as the shadows closed around it. She loved to make him read and
talk to her--and her ancient poetry of thought now grew mellowed, as it
were, into religion, which is indeed poetry with a stronger wing. . . .
There was a world beyond the grave--there was life out of the chrysalis
sleep of death--they would yet be united. And Maltravers, who was a
solemn and intense believer in the GREAT HOPE, did not neglect the
purest and highest of all the fountains of solace.

Often in that quiet room, in that gorgeous mansion, which had been the
scene of all vain or worldly schemes--of flirtations and feastings, and