Meanwhile, he awoke one day to find Mrs. Croix sitting beside his bed.  She had left town in June, and usually did not return until late in September.  She wore a white frock and a blue sash, and looked like an angel about to do penance.

“I have come back to take care of the sick, including yourself,” she announced, “I was born to be a nurse, and I felt that my place was here.  I have come to see you first, and I shall call daily, but otherwise I am in Dr. Stevens’s hands.”

Hamilton stared at her.  He was not surprised, for she was kind hearted in her erratic imperious fashion, and much beloved by the poor; nor was she afraid of anything under heaven.  But she was the last person he had wished to see; she was for his triumphant hours, or his furious, not for helpless invalidism.  He had longed consistently for his wife, and written to her by every packet-boat, lest she suspect his illness and return to the plague-stricken city.  He was filled with a sudden resentment that any other woman should presume to fill her chair.  To forget her under overwhelming provocation he had reconciled to his conscience with little difficulty, for his extenuations were many, and puritanism had not yet invaded the national character; but to permit another woman to ministrate to him when ill, he felt to be an unpardonable breach of his Eliza’s rights, and his loyalty rebelled.  So, although he treated Mrs. Croix with politeness while she remained, he gave orders to Dr. Stevens to keep her away upon any pretext he chose.  “I am too nervous to be bothered with women,” he added; and Stevens obeyed without comment.

Hamilton’s convalescence was cheered by two facts:  the revival of his spirits and equilibrium, and frequent assurances from his wife that for the first time in five years she was entirely well.  She wrote that she had regained all her old colour, “spring,” vivacity, and plumpness, and felt quite ten years younger.  Hamilton was delighted; for her courage had so far exceeded her strength that he had often feared a collapse.  Although she detested the sight of a pen, she was so elated with her recovered health that she wrote to him weekly.  Suddenly, and without explanation, the letters stopped.  Still, he was quite unprepared for what was to follow, and on the first of October, his health improved by a short sojourn in the country, he went to the wharf to meet the packet-boat which invariably brought his family; his pockets full of sweets, and not a misgiving in his mind.

As he stood on the wharf, watching the boat towed slowly to dock, his four oldest children suddenly appeared, waving their hats and shouting like young Indians.  James, who was as broad as he was long, and was wedged firmly between Angelica and Philip lest he turn over, swelled a chorus which excited much amusement among by-standers.  To Hamilton’s surprise his wife did not occupy her usual place behind that enthusiastic group, but as the boat touched the