this care! Last night as I sat beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears—as it often does,—but this time, a tear fell on his face and made him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly. "Dear Helen!" he said—"why do you cry? you know that I love you" (and he pressed my hand to his feverish lips,) "and what more could you desire?"
"Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself, as truly and as faithfully as you are loved by me."
"That would be hard indeed!" he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand.
I don't know whether he fully understood my meaning, but he smiled—thoughtfully and oven sadly—a most unusual thing with him;—and then he closed his eyes and fell asleep, looking as careless and sinless as a child. As I watched that placid slumber, my heart swelled fuller than ever, and my tears flowed unrestrained.
