awoke, and he pained by grief, which he vainly deemed was turned into hope.
Day and night she hung over Guido's pillow—her sweet face, like a mirror, reflecting every change of his—pale as he beside whom she was watching. Only for the briefest period would she allow Lucy to take her place; and when, worn out, she slumbered, it was to dream she was still at his side. Ah! human nature is beautiful at such a time—beautiful amid its agony. There was something so touching in the patience with which Guido endured many a pang that tortured every nerve, lest an expression of pain should wring his sister's heart, who, alas! knew too well the kindly deceit, and almost wished him to complain, as she wiped away the dew upon his forehead.
Guido suffered much,—weakness made every movement pain; and yet he was haunted by that feverish restlessness, which is one of the worst features of the disease. The food he longed for one moment, he loathed when he came to taste it. The struggle between body and soul which takes place in this lingering illness is terrible to witness—it is as if two mysterious powers contended together. The soul, calm, prepared, or rather pining for its departure,—the body, still bound to earth, resists the coming sleep to the last; and these two op-
