Every day she must see the happy face of her friend, and listen to the sweet secrets of her rapture.

She must listen while _his_ name is magnified by another; she must look upon the majestic countenance of the youth whom she may not worship--nay, she must not even dare to speak of him, lest her blushes and the tremor of her voice should betray what no man must ever know! How happy she would have been now, had she never learnt to know this passion, if she had never allowed her soul to fly away after unattainable desires! If only she had listened to that honest old woman she would now be sitting at home in her quiet peaceful cottage among the meadows, with nothing to think of but her flowers! That was all, all over now! She was no longer able to go either backwards or forwards.

Only to live on, live on, one day after another, and, as every day came round, to sigh, as she got up to face it: "Yet another day!" But her husband, that good old fellow, what of him?
Only now did Karpathy feel how much he loved his wife! Perhaps if she had died he would not have survived her.

Sometimes the doctors would allow him to see his wife, and at such times he would stand with streaming eyes at the foot of the sick woman's bed, kissing her hand, and weeping like a child.

At last his wife was out of danger.