“Some there are,” said Mary, “which are indeed irremediable, but”—­she paused a moment, then slightly raising herself on her couch, she threw her arm round Ellen’s neck, and said, in a low yet deeply expressive voice—­“is your love, indeed, so hopeless, my poor Ellen?  Oh, no, it cannot be; surely, there is not one whom you have known sufficiently to give your precious love, can look on you and not return it.”

Ellen started, a deep and painful flush rose for a moment to her cheek, she struggled to speak calmly, to deny the truth of Mary’s suspicion, but she could not, the secret of her heart was too suddenly exposed before her, and she burst into tears.  How quickly will a word, a tone destroy the well-maintained calmness of years; how strangely and suddenly will the voice of sympathy lift from the heart its veil.

“You have penetrated my secret,” she said, and her voice faltered, “and I will not deny it; but oh, Mary, let us speak no more of it.  When a woman is weak enough to bestow her affections on one who never sought, who will never seek them, surely the more darkly they are hidden, the better for her own peace as well as character.  My love was not called for.  I never had aught to hope; and if that unrequited affection be the destroyer of my happiness, it has sprung from my own weakness, and I alone have but to bear it.”

“But is there no hope, Ellen—­none?  Do not think so, dearest.  If his affections be still disengaged, is there not hope they may one day be yours?”

“No, Mary, none.  I knew his affections were engaged; I knew he never could be mine, and yet I loved him.  Oh, Mary, do not scorn my weakness; you have wrung my secret from me, do not, oh, do not betray me.  There is no shame in loving one so good, so holy, and yet—­and yet—­Mary, dearest Mary, promise me you will not speak it—­I cannot rest unless you do; let it pass your lips to none.”

“It shall not, my Ellen; be calm, your secret shall die with me, dearest,” replied Mary, earnestly, for Ellen’s feelings completely overpowered her, and bursting sobs choked her utterance.

“For me there is no hope.  Oh, could I but see him happy, I should ask no more; but, oh, to see him miserable, and feel I have no power to soothe—­when—­” She paused abruptly, again the burning blood dyed her cheeks, even her temples with crimson.  Mary’s eyes were fixed upon her in sympathy, in love; Ellen fancied in surprise, yet suspicion.  With one powerful effort she conquered herself, she forced back the scalding tears, the convulsive sob, and bending over Mary, pressed her trembling lips upon her pale brow.

“Let us speak no more of this, dearest Mary,” she said, in a low calm voice.  “May God bless you for your intended kindness.  It is over now.  Forgive me, dearest Mary, I have agitated and disturbed you.”

“Nay, forgive me, my sweet Ellen.  It is I who have given you pain, and should ask your forgiveness.  I thought not of such utter hopelessness.  I had hoped that, ere I departed, I might have seen the dawn of happiness for you; but I see, I feel now that cannot be.  My own Ellen, I need not tell you the comfort, the blessed comfort of prayer.”