
threatened her reason, and - scarcely worse - her life itself.
    Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so severe and dangerous, could be
insensible to the unremitting attentions of such a nurse as gentle, tender,
earnest Kate? On whom could the sweet soft voice, the light step, the delicate
hand, the quiet cheerful noiseless discharge of those thousand little offices of
kindness and relief which we feel so deeply when we are ill, and forget so
lightly when we are well - on whom could they make so deep an impression as on a
young heart stored with every pure and true affection that women cherish; almost
a stranger to the endearments and devotion of its own sex, save as it learnt
them from itself; rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenly susceptible of the
sympathy so long unknown and so long sought in vain! What wonder that days
became as years in knitting them together! What wonder, if with every hour of
returning health, there came some stronger and sweeter recognition of the
praises which Kate, when they recalled old scenes - they seemed old now, and to
have been acted years ago - would lavish on her brother! Where would have been
the wonder, even, if those praises had found a quick response in the breast of
Madeline, and if, with the image of Nicholas so constantly recurring in the
features of his sister that she could scarcely separate the two, she had
sometimes found it equally difficult to assign to each the feelings they had
first inspired, and had imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude to Nicholas,
some of that warmer feeling which she had assigned to Kate!
    »My dear,« Mrs. Nickleby would say, coming into the room with an elaborate
caution, calculated to discompose the nerves of an invalid rather more than the
entry of a horse-soldier at full gallop; »how do you find yourself to-night? I
hope you are better?«
    »Almost well, mama,« Kate would reply, laying down her work, and taking
Madeline's hand in hers.
    »Kate!« Mrs. Nickleby would say, reprovingly, »don't talk so loud« (the
worthy lady herself talking in a whisper that would have made the blood of the
stoutest man run cold in his veins).
    Kate would take this reproof very quietly, and Mrs. Nickleby, making every
board creak and every thread rustle as she moved stealthily about, would add:
    »My son Nicholas has just come home, and I have come, according to custom,
my dear, to know, from your own lips, exactly
