From that time, there sprung up in the old man’s mind, a solicitude¹ about the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the human heart — strange, varying strings² — which are only struck by accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most passionate³ and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual touch. In the most insensible or childish minds, there is some train of reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill assist, but which will reveal itself, as great truths have done, by chance, and when the discoverer has the plainest end in view. From that time, the old man never, for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion of the child; from the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling⁴ by his side through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely thought of her otherwise than as the partner of miseries⁵ which he felt severely⁶ in his own person, and deplored⁷ for his own sake at least as much as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her, and what those miseries had made her. Never, no, never once, in one unguarded moment from that time to the end, did any care for himself, any thought of his own comfort, any selfish consideration or regard distract his thoughts from the gentle object of his love.

He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean upon his arm — he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner, content to watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon him as of old — he would discharge by stealth, those household duties which tasked her powers too heavily — he would rise, in the cold dark nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch⁸ for hours by her bedside only to touch her hand. He who knows all, can only know what hopes, and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were in that one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on the poor old man. Sometimes — weeks had crept on, then — the child,

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