During his illness, there was one who never left him--who smoothed his
pillow--who supported his head on her breast--who watched him as a
mother watches her first-born. It was the youthful Greek, Acme Frascati.
The instant she heard of his danger, she left her home to tend him. No
entreaties could influence her, no arguments persuade. She would sit by
his bedside for hours, his feverish hand locked in hers, and implore him
to recover, to bless one who loved him so dearly. They could not part
them; for George, even in his delirious state, seemed to be conscious
that some one was near him, and, did she leave his side, would rise in
his bed, and look around him as if missing some accustomed object. In
his wilder flights, he would call passionately upon her, and beg her to
save his friend, who was lying so dead and still.

For a length of time, neither care nor professional skill availed.
Fearful was the struggle, between his disease, and a naturally hardy
constitution. Reason at last resumed her dominion. "I know not," said
the surgeon, "the particulars of the first dawning of consciousness. It
appears that Acme was alone with him, and that it was at night. I found
him on my professional visit one morning, clear and collected, and his
mistress sobbing her thanks. I need perhaps hardly inform you," said the
narrator, "that George's gratitude to Acme was vividly expressed. It was
in vain I urged on her the propriety of now leaving her lover. This was
met on both sides by an equal disinclination, and indeed obstinate
refusal; and I feared the responsibility I should incur, by enforcing a
separation which might have proved of dangerous consequence to my
patient. Alas! for human nature, Sir Henry! need it surprise you that
the consequences were what they are? Loving him with the fervency of one
born under an eastern sun--with the warm devotion of woman's first
love--with slender ideas of Christian morality--and with a mind
accustomed to obey its every impulse--need it, I say, surprise you, that