"I have tarried too long already, Virginia; I must go to-morrow."
He did not go on the morrow; for while they stood there upon the balcony in the summer moonshine, a servant came hastily with word, that the master of the house was again stricken down, in his library, as he sat reading the evening paper.
He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an unconscious state. Everybody seemed to feel, from the moment of his attack, that this time there was no hope of his recovery. The family physician had only left him and returned to the city a day or two previously. The evening boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes; Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to New York, and bring back the medical attendant by the return boat in the morning. Meanwhile he did what little he could for the relief of the unconscious man, while Virginia, pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosom withering beneath the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside, holding the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp. Hours passed in this manner; toward morning, while both sat watching for some sign of returning sensibility to the deathly features, the sufferer's eyes unclosed and he looked about him with a wandering air—
"Where is Alice? Alice! Alice! why don't you come? I've forgiven you, quite, and I want you to come home."
"He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking with awe into the eyes which did not recognize her, and drawing her cousin nearer to her side.
"Don't tell me she is dead—Alice, the pride of my house—not dead!"
"Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't you do something to relieve him?"
"Virginia, poor child! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid. Be brave, my dear girl, I will help you to bear it."
Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and tenderness to the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only him to cling to. Presently the wild look faded out of the sick man's eyes.