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Rh week's intended halt permitting such an absence, he prevailed on an English surgeon to accompany him to the mountains. His opinion was only too decisive. Quiet and kindness might ameliorate, but never restore. The only chance he held out was, that when circumstances enabled them to return to their house, familiar scenes, and accustomed dress, might awaken some touch of memory—though nothing could ever recall the whole mind. To such a blow as this, death had been merciful. Similar tastes, similar pursuits, had bound Zoridos to his young English wife—his mind had been accustomed to see itself mirrored in hers, only with a softer shadow. He had been used to that greatest of mental pleasures—to have his thoughts often divined—always entered into. And now—the intelligent and accomplished woman was a weak, and even worse, a merry child. The affectionate wife looked in her husband's face as in that of a stranger, from whom she shrank with fear. The past with no memory, the future with no hope.

The bitterest cup has its one drop of honey; and the feeling of reciprocal affection was roused in Zoridos by the almost frantic delight of his