Frederick Farnham would not leave the country. With the resolution of a strong will he persisted in treating Isabel's vow as nothing, and would not be convinced that she might not herself see it in this light at last. As for his mother, one month more and he would be of age, and her power over him must give way; surely Isabel would recognize his independent position then.
Every day he went to the Old Homestead with renewed hope, and left it in disappointment. Isabel's recovery was protracted till even the physician believed that she was sinking into a decline. She could not see Frederick in her wretched state, the excitement would have killed her.
Oh, that rash, rash oath! In the pure atmosphere of her new home, with the invigorating influence of Mary Fuller's cheerful piety and rare good sense assuming its former sway, Isabel began to see her act in its true light, but repentance could not expunge the black vow from her soul. It was devouring her vitality like a vampire.
At last she came down stairs; the doctor thought it possible, that one unvaried scene retarded her advancement, and, one day, Frederick was surprised by a vision of her pale loveliness, as she sat in her easy-chair, by a window of the room in which sister Anna died.
Reverently and almost holding his breath, with intense feeling, young
Farnham stole up to this window.
"Isabel, my Isabel!"
She started, with a faint shriek.
"Are you afraid, Isabel? has the sight of me become a terror," he said, sadly.
"No, no," answered the young girl, and her eyes filled; "I wanted to see you; it was for this I consented to come down stairs."
"Bless you for that, darling."