"My father seems to say so," said George, looking up. "I had a long interview with him the other day; told him the whole story, and confided to him all my feelings. He was kindness itself; but he gave me no hope."
"But, good heavens, it seems so wonderful! Here one sees her walking about, and talking in an ordinary manner, and yet you tell me that she is mad!"
"We only have seen her at her best times, my dear Paul. No one has seen her at her worst, except perhaps my father and Mrs. Stothard. These intermittent fits are, they tell me, a very bad sign. The chance were better, if the illness were more constant and protracted."
"It is too horrible!" cried Paul again. "George, what will you do?"
"Bear it, my boy," said his friend; "bear it as I have done things before now, and get on as best I can. I thought of going away, to endeavour in change by the excitement of travel to get rid of the thoughts which are now constantly occupying my mind, and I hope to return in a healthier state. But what you have just told me has altered my plan. The notion of seeing her once again, and speedily, has taken possession of me, and I confess I am not strong enough to fight against it. When do they come up to town?"
"At once, I believe. My mother says the governor's temper is unbearable, and that her only hope of any peace and comfort lies in bringing him to London. You will remain to see them?"
"Yes. As I said before, I cannot resist the temptation."
"Perhaps there may be hope even yet," said Paul. "Every one noticed how much better she was in health and spirits when in your society."
"I fear that improvement will not be permanent," said George, shaking his head sadly. "There was but one chance, and we seem to have lost even that."
"What was it?" asked Paul.