CHAPTEE IX. 



For two long months Percy Fairfax lay, after the 

 first week, on the sofa in the drawing-room at Mor- 

 ton Hall; and for two long months Mary Merton 

 nursed him— not as the ladies of the middle ages 

 nui'sed their preux chevaliers, with lint and simples, 

 and the homely medicaments of their gentle skill ; 

 but with her soft society, her sparkling conversation, 

 her low voice, clear as a silver bell, reading to him, 

 her rare contralto, magnificent, singing to him. 



Happy man, Percy Fairfax ! 



They had no need to make love, it was made to 

 them ; or it had existed from the beginning unmade, 

 uncreated, awaiting only the touch of Ithuriel's spear 

 for its full revealment. 



They had no need to talk love, for they inhaled it 

 at every breath, expired it every breath, fed on it in 

 their minds, drank it in their wine, lived on it by day, 

 dreamed of it by night. Yet they never spoke of it 

 —-they seemed content to let time flow on in this hap- 

 piness unquestioned, so long as it would flow on. 

 Every one took it for granted. 'The admiral smiled 

 without speaking. He had inquired of the American 

 minister — nothing could be more satisfactory. A 

 birth, noble, in England— wealth, fabulous, in Virgi- 

 nia tobacco, South Carolina Cotton, Georgia rice, 

 Louisiana sugar, not to mention the niggers, unname- 

 able in English ears humane. 



And Fairfax has recovered, and the cream of the 



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