 will only continue to observe the necessary restrictions.  Some stimulating cordials he must have, but they should be judiciously diluted and sparingly used; and I find it very difficult to keep him to this.  At first, his extreme dread of death rendered the task an easy one; but in proportion as he feels his acute suffering abating, and sees the danger receding, the more intractable he becomes.  Now, also, his appetite for food is beginning to return; and here, too, his long habits of self-indulgence are greatly against him.  I watch and restrain him as well as I can, and often get bitterly abused for my rigid severity; and sometimes he contrives to elude my vigilance, and sometimes acts in opposition to my will.  But he is now so completely reconciled to my attendance in general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side.  I am obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make a complete slave of me; and I know it would be unpardonable weakness to give up all other interests for him.  I have the servants to overlook, and my little Arthur to attend to,—and my own health too, all of which would be entirely neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands.  I do not generally sit up at night, for I think the nurse who has made it her business is better qualified for such undertakings than I am;—but still, an unbroken night’s rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never can venture to reckon upon; for my patient makes no scruple of calling me up at an hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence.  But he is manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries my patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints and reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject submission and deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has gone too far.  But all this I can readily pardon; I know it is chiefly the result of his enfeebled frame and disordered nerves.  What annoys me the most, is his occasional attempts at affectionate fondness that I can neither credit nor return; not that I hate him: his sufferings and my own laborious care have given him some claim to my regard—to my affection even, if he would only be quiet and sincere, and content to let things remain as they are; but the more he tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink from him and from the future.

‘Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?’ he asked this morning.  ‘Will
