During the four succeeding days, the house hold at Riverside manor were much alarmed for Arthur’s safety, for a violent fever had ensued, and, to judge from the physician’s evasive answers, the event was doubtful. The family were unremitting in their attentions, and Oriana, quietly, but with her characteristic self-will, insisted upon fulfilling her share of the duties of a nurse. And no hand more gently smoothed the sick man’s pillow or administered more tenderly the cooling draught. It seemed that Arthur’s sleep was calmer when her form was bending over him, and even when his thoughts were wandering and his eyes were restless with delirium, they turned to welcome her as she took her accustomed seat. Once, while she watched there alone in the twilight, the open book unheeded in her hand, and her subdued eyes bent thoughtfully upon his face as he slept unconscious of her presence, she saw the white lips move and heard the murmur of the low, musical voice. Her fair head was bent to catch the words they were the words of delirium or of dreams, but they brought a blush to her cheek. And yet she bent her head still lower and listened, until her forehead rested on the pillow, and when she looked up again with a sigh, and fixed her eyes mechanically on the page before her, there was a trace of tears upon the drooping lashes.

He awoke from a refreshing slumber and it seemed that the fever was gone; for his glance was calm and clear, and the old smile was upon his lips. When he beheld Oriana, a slight flush passed over his cheek.

“Are you indeed there, Miss Weems,” he said, “or do I still dream? I have been dreaming, I know not what, but I was very happy.” He sighed, and closed his eyes, as if he longed to woo back the vision which had fled. She seemed to know what he had been dreaming, for while his cheek paled again, hers glowed like an autumn cloud at sunset.

“I trust you are much better, Mr. Wayne?”

“Oh yes, much better. I fear I have been very troublesome to you all. You have been very kind to me.”

“Do not speak so, Mr. Wayne,” she replied, and a tear glistened in her eyes. “If you knew how grateful we all are to you! You have suffered terribly for my sake, Mr. Wayne. You have a brave, pure heart, and I could hate myself with thinking that I once dared to wrong and to insult it.”

“In my turn, I say do not speak so. I pray you, let there be no thoughts between us that make you unhappy. What you accuse yourself of, I have forgotten, or remember only as a passing cloud that lingered for a moment on a pure and lovely sky. There must be no self-reproaches between us twain, Miss Weems, for we must become strangers to each other in this world, and when we part I would not leave with you one bitter recollection.”

There was sorrow in his tone, and the young girl paused awhile and gazed through the lattice earnestly into the gathering gloom of evening.

“We must not be strangers, Mr. Wayne.”

“Alas! yes, for to be otherwise were fatal, at least to me.”

She did not answer, and both remained silent and thoughtful, so long, indeed, that the night shadows obscured the room. Oriana arose and lit the lamp.

“I must go and prepare some supper for you,” she said, in a lighter tone.

He took her hand as she stood at his bed-side and spoke in a low but earnest voice:

“You must forget what I have said to you, Miss Weems. I am weak and feverish, and my brain has been wandering among misty dreams. If I have spoken indiscreetly, you will forgive me, will you not?”

“It is I that am to be forgiven, for allowing my patient to talk when the doctor prescribes silence. I am going to get your supper, for I am sure you must be hungry; so, good bye,” she added gaily, as she smoothed the pillow, and glided from the room. Oriana was silent and reserved for some days after this, and Harold seemed also to be disturbed and ill at ease. Some link appeared to be broken between them, for she did not look into his eyes with the same frank, trusting gaze that had so often returned his glance of tenderness, and sometimes even she looked furtively away with heightened color, when, with some gentle commonplace, his voice broke in upon her meditation. Arthur was now able to sit for some hours daily in his easy-chair, and Oriana often came to him at such times, and although they conversed but rarely, and upon indifferent themes, she was never weary of reading to him, at his request, some favorite book. And sometimes, as the author’s sentiment found an echo in her heart, she would pause and gaze listlessly at the willow branches that waved before the casement, and both would remain silent and pensive, till some member of the family entered, and broke in upon their revery.

“Come, Oriana,” said Harold, one afternoon, “let us walk to the top of yonder hillock, and look at this glorious sunset.”

She went for her bonnet and shawl, and joined him. They had reached the summit of the hill before either of them broke silence, and then Oriana mechanically made some commonplace remark about the beauty of the western sky. He replied with a monosyllable, and sat down upon a moss-covered rock. She plucked a few wild-flowers, and toyed with them.

“Oriana, Arthur is much better now.”

“Much better, Harold.”

“I have no fears for his safety now. I think I shall go to-morrow.”

“Go, Harold?”

“Yes, to New York. The President has appealed to the States for troops. I am no soldier, but I cannot remain idle while my fellow citizens are rallying to arms.”

“Will you fight, Harold?”

“If needs be.”

“Against your countrymen?”

“Against traitors.”

“Against me, perhaps.”

“Heaven forbid that the blood of any of your kin should be upon my hands. I know how much you have suffered, dearest, with the thought that this unhappy business may separate us for a time. Think you that the eye of affection could fail to notice your dejection and reflective mood for some days past?”

Her face grew crimson, and she tore nervously the petals of the flower in her hand.

“Oriana, you are my betrothed, and no earthly discords should sever our destinies or estrange our hearts. Why should we part at all. Be mine at once, Oriana, and go with me to the loyal North, for none may tell how soon a barrier may be set between your home and me.”

“That would be treason to my kindred and the home of my birth.”

“And to be severed from me would it not be treason to your heart?”

She did not answer.

“I have spoken to Beverly about it, and he will not seek to control you. We are most unhappy, Oriana, in our national troubles; why should we be so in our domestic ties. We can be blest, even among the rude alarms of war. This strife will soon be over, and you shall see the old homestead once again. But while the dark cloud lowers, I call upon you, in the name of your pledged affection, to share my fortunes with me, and bless me with this dear hand.”

That hand remained passively within his own, but her bosom swelled with emotion, and presently the large tears rolled upon her cheek. He would have pressed her to his bosom, but she gently turned from him, and sinking upon the sward, sobbed through her clasped fingers.

“Why are you thus unhappy, dear Oriana?” he murmured, as he bent tenderly above her. “Surely you do not love me less because of this poison of rebellion that infects the land. And with love, woman’s best consolation, to be your comforter, why should you be unhappy?”

She arose, pale and excited, and raised his hand to her lips. The act seemed to him a strange one for an affianced bride, and he gazed upon her with a troubled air.

“Let us go home, Harold.”

“But tell me that you love me.”

She placed her two hands lightly about his neck, and looked up mournfully but steadily into his face.

“I will be your true wife, Harold, and pray heaven I may love you as you deserve to be loved. But I am not well to-day, Harold. Let us speak no more of this now, for there is something at my heart that must be quieted with penitence and prayer. Oh, do not question me, Harold,” she added, as she leaned her cheek upon his breast; “we will talk with Beverly, and to-morrow I shall be stronger and less foolish. Come, Harold, let us go home.”

She placed her arm within his, and they walked silently homeward. When they reached the house, Oriana was hastening to her chamber, but she lingered at the threshold, and returned to Harold.

“I am not well to-night, and shall not come down to tea. Good night, Harold. Smile upon me as you were wont to do,” she added, as she pressed his hand and raised her swollen eyes, beneath whose white lids were crushed two teardrops that were striving to burst forth. “Give me the smile of the old time, and the old kiss, Harold,” and she raised her forehead to receive it. “Do not look disturbed; I have but a headache, and shall be well to-morrow. Good night dear Harold.”

She strove to look pleasantly as she left the room, but Harold was bewildered and anxious, and, till the summons came for supper, he paced the veranda with slow and meditative steps.