Arthur groaned inwardly, but made her no reply. Sitting down in his arm-chair, he watched her intently as she made his tea, removed her apron, brushed her curls, and then look her seat at the table, bidding him do the same. Mechanically he obeyed, affecting to eat for her sake, while his eyes were constantly fastened upon her face. Supper being over and the table removed, he continued watching her intently as she flitted about the room, now perching herself upon his knee, calling him "her good boy," now holding a whispered conversation with Miggie, who, she fancied, was there, and again singing to herself a plaintive song she had sung to Dr. Griswold. When it drew near her bedtime she went to the window, from which the curtain was thrown back, and looking out upon the blackness of the night, said to Arthur,
"The darkness is very dark. I should think poor Dr. Griswold would be afraid lying there alone in that narrow grave. What made him die, Arthur? I didn't want him to. It had better been I, hadn't it?"
She came close to him now, and sitting on his knee held his bearded chin in her hand, while she continued,
"Would my poor boy be very lonesome, knowing that Nina wasn't here, nor up stairs, nor in the Asylum, nor over at Miggie's, nor anywhere? Would you miss me a bit?"
"YES, YES, YES!"
The words came with quiet, gasping sobs, for in his hour of bitterest anguish, Arthur had never for an instant wished HER gone—the little blue-eyed creature clinging so confidingly to him and asking if he would miss her when she was dead.
"Nina's would be a little grave," she said, "not as large as Miggie's, and perhaps it won't be long before they dig it. I can wait. You can wait; can't you, boy?"
What was it which prompted her thus to speak to him? What was it which made him see Griswold's glance in the eyes looking so earnestly to his own? Surely there was something more than mere chance in all this. Nina would save him. She had grasped his conscience, and she stirred it with no gentle hand, until the awakened man writhed in agony, such as the drowning are said to feel when slowly restored to life, and bowing his head on Nina's, he cried,
"What shall I do? Tell me, Nina, what to do!"
Once before, when thus appealed to, she had answered him, "Do right," and she now said the same to the weeping man, who sobbed aloud, "I will. I will tell her all to-morrow. I wish it were to- morrow now, but the long night must intervene, and a weak, vacillating fool like me may waver in that time. Nina," and he held her closer to him, "stay here with me till morning. I am stronger where you are. The sight of you does me good. Phillis will fix you a bed upon the sofa and make you comfortable; will you stay?"