Ellen again kissed her and closed the curtains, obeying her so far as to retire to her room, but not to bed; she was much too uneasy to do so.  Emmeline had been in very delicate health for some months, and it appeared to her observant eyes and mind, that now the cause for her exertion was removed, by the discovery of her long-treasured secret, that health had really given way, and she was actually ill in body as well as mind.  The burning heat of her forehead and hand, the quick pulsation of her temples, had alarmed her as predicting fever; and Ellen, with that quiet resolution and prompt decision, which now appeared to form such prominent traits in her character, determined on returning to her cousin’s room as soon as she thought she had fallen asleep, and remain there during the night; that if she were restless, uneasy, or wakeful, she might, by her presence, be some comfort, and if these feverish symptoms continued, be in readiness to send for Mr. Maitland at the first dawn of morning, without alarming her aunt.

“You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline,” she said internally, as she prepared herself for her night’s visit by assuming warmer clothing.  “Oh, that your grief may speedily pass away; I cannot bear to see one so formed for joy as you are grieved.  My own sorrows I can bear without shrinking, without disclosing by one sign what I am internally suffering.  I have been nerved from my earliest years to trial, and it would be strange indeed did I not seem as you believe me. I know not what it is to love. I know not the pang of that utter hopelessness which bows my poor cousin to the earth.  Ah, Emmeline, you know not such hopelessness as mine, gloomy as are your prospects; you can claim the sympathy, the affection, the consolation, of all those who are dear to you; there is no need to hide your love, ill-fated as it is, for it is returned—­you are beloved; and I, my heart must bleed in secret, for no such mitigation attends its loss of peace.  I dare not seek for sympathy, or say I love; but why—­why am I encouraging these thoughts?” and she started as if some one could have heard her scarcely-audible soliloquy.  “It is woman’s lot to suffer—­man’s is to act, woman’s to bear; and such must be mine, and in silence, for even the sympathy of my dearest relative I dare not ask.  Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame to love one so good, so superior, so holy? because, because he does not love me, save with a brother’s love; and I know he loves another.”

The slight frame of the orphan shook beneath that inward struggle; there were times, in her hours of solitude, when such thoughts would come, spite of every effort to expel them, and there was only one way to obtain that self-control she so much needed, so continually exercised, till it became a second nature.  She became aware her feelings had obtained undue ascendency, and, sinking on her knees, remained absorbed in prayer, fervent and heartfelt, truly the outpourings of a contrite and trusting spirit, confident in the power and mercy to which she appealed.  That anguish passed ere she arose, and every sign of agitation had left her countenance and voice as she put her resolution into action, and returned to her cousin.