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“I will write to my son at once and ask his forgiveness, and that of his wife, whom I have wronged,” she said, with a suddenly formed resolution. But pride rushed up instantly.

“No, no,” it objected; “not now. You should have done this before: it is too late; they will not believe you sincere.”

A painful conflict ensued, which continued with increasing violence until, in consequence of prolonged mental excitement, a slow nervous fever took hold of Mrs. Linden’s physical system, and in a short time reduced her to a very critical state. Intelligence of this was conveyed to her son William, but, for some cause or other, neither himself nor wife visited her. At the end of a week she was so low as to be considered in great danger; she, no longer recognised the person of her attendant, or appeared to be conscious of what was passing around her.

A letter from a friend, through whom he was kept informed of all that occurred to her, apprized Charles Linden of his mother’s critical situation.

“Florence,” said he to his sister, in reading the letter to her and his wife, “I think you and I should go to P–immediately. You can be mother’s nurse until she recovers, and then it may not be hard to reconcile all that is past.”

Ellen looked earnestly in the face of her husband; something was on her tongue, but she appeared to hesitate about giving it utterance.

“Does not that meet your approval?” asked Charles.

“Why may not I be the nurse?” was asked in hesitating tones.

“You!” said Charles, in a voice of surprise. “That should be the duty of Florence.”

“And my privilege,” returned Ellen, speaking more firmly.

“What good would be the result?”

“Great good, I trust. Let me go and be the angel to her sick-chamber. She is too ill to notice any one; she will not, therefore, perceive that a stranger is ministering to her. As she begins to recover, and I have an inward assurance that she will, I will bestow upon her the most assiduous attentions. I will inspire her heart with grateful affection for one whom she knows not; and when she asks for my name, I will conceal it until the right moment, and then throw myself at her feet and call her mother. Oh! let it be my task to watch in her sick-chamber.”

Neither Charles nor his sister said one word in opposition. On the next day, they all started for P–. Charles Linden went with his excellent wife to the house where his mother was residing with an old friend, and opened to this friend their wishes. She readily entered into their plans, and Ellen was at once constituted nurse.

For the first two days, there were but few encouraging symptoms. Mrs. Linden was in a very critical situation. At the end of a week, the fever abated, leaving the patient as helpless as an infant, and with scarcely more consciousness of external things. During this time, Ellen attended her with some of the feeling with which a mother watches over her babe. Gradually the life-current in the veins of the sick woman became fuller and stronger. Gradually her mind acquired the power of acting through the external senses. Ellen perceived this. Now had come the ardently hoped-for time. With a noiseless step, with a voice low and tender, with hands that did their office almost caressingly, she anticipated and met every want of the invalid.

As light began again to dawn upon the mind of Mrs. Linden, she could not but notice the sweet-faced, gentle, assiduous stranger who had become her nurse. Her first feeling was one of gratitude, blended with affection. Never before had any one been so devoted to her; never before had any one appeared to regard her with such a real wish to do her good.

“What is your name, my dear?” she asked one day, in a feeble voice, looking up into her face.