"Oh God! oh God!" said Delmé, "he must not sink thus. Just as I am with him--just as--oh, poor Emily! what will she feel? Can nothing be done, Mr. Graham?"
"Nothing! Sir: we must now put our whole trust in an all-seeing Providence. My skill can neither foresee nor hasten the result."
One soft summer's evening, when the wind blew in the scent of flowers from the opposite gardens--and the ceaseless hum of the insects--those twilight revellers--sounded happily on the ear, Acmé started from the couch as a thought crossed her.
"We have never tried music," said she, "I have been too unhappy to think of it."
Her tears fell fast on the guitar, as she tuned its strings. She sung a plaintive Greek air. It was the first George ever heard her sing, and was the favourite. He heard it, when watching; lover-like beneath her balcony during the first vernal days of their attachment. The song was gone through sadly, and without hope. George's face was from her, and she laid down the guitar, weary of life.
George gently turned his head. His eyes wore a subdued melancholy expression, bespeaking consciousness. Down his cheek one big drop was trickling.
"Acmé!" said he, "dearest Acmé!"
Delmé, who had left the room, was recalled by the hysterical sobs of the poor girl, as she fell back on the chair, her hands clasped in joyful gratitude.
The surgeon, who had immediately been sent for, ordered that George should converse as little as possible.
What he did say was rational. What a solace was that to Henry and Acmé! The invalid too appeared well aware of his previous illness, although he alluded to it but seldom. To those about him, his manner was femininely soft, as he whispered his thanks, and sense of their kindness.