“Yet doubt it not, my own Emmeline; our Father in heaven judgeth not as man judgeth.  Man might condemn this appearance of weakness in you now, but God will not, for he knows the individual strength of His creatures, and in love and mercy chasteneth accordingly.  He knoweth this is a severe trial for one, young and gentle as you are; and with your heart lifted up to Him, as I know it is, doubt not that your prayers will be heard and this pang softened in His own time.  I fear my words sound cold; but oh, would that I could comfort you, dearest,” and tears stood trembling in Ellen’s eyes.

“And you do comfort me, Ellen; oh, I do not feel so very wretched with you near me as I do alone, though even you cannot guess this extent of suffering; you know not what it is to love, and yet to feel there is no hope; no—­none,” she repeated, in a low murmuring tone, as if to convince herself that there was indeed none, as she had said; and it was not strange that thus engrossed, she marked not that a slight shudder passed through her cousin’s frame at her last words; that Ellen’s cheek suddenly vied in its deadly paleness with her own; that the tears dried up, as if frozen in those large, dark eyes, which were fixed upon her with an expression she would, had she seen it, have found difficult to understand; that the pale lip quivered for a few minutes, so as entirely to prevent her speaking as she had intended.

“Go to bed, dearest Emmeline, indeed you must not sit up longer,” Ellen said at length, as she folded her arms fondly round her and kissed her cheek.  “When I was ill, you ever wished to dictate to me,” she continued, playfully, “and I was always good and obedient; will you not act up to your own principle and obey me now? think of your mother, dearest, how anxious she will be if you are ill.  I will not leave you till you are asleep.”

“No, no, dear Ellen, I will not so abuse your kindness; I will go to bed.  I have been wrong to sit up thus, when I promised mamma to do all I could to—­but, indeed, you must not stay with me, Ellen.  I feel so exhausted, I may perhaps sleep sooner than I expect; but even if I do not, you must not sit up.”

“Never mind, my love, let me see you obedient, and I will perhaps learn the same lesson,” replied Ellen, playfully, though her cheek retained its suddenly-acquired paleness.  Emmeline no longer resisted, and Ellen quickly had the relief of seeing her in bed, and her eyes closed, as if in the hope of obtaining sleep; but after a few minutes they again opened, and seeing Ellen watching her, she said—­

“You had better leave me, Ellen, I shall not be able to sleep if I think you are watching me, and losing your own night’s rest.  I am not ill, my dear cousin, I am only miserable, and that will pass away perhaps for a short time again, as it did this afternoon.”