“Cousin Emily,” Agnes called, “dear cousin Emily, may I come in?”

There was no answer, but those same deep groans and now and then a plaintive moaning.  Agnes opened the door gently, and saw Emily upon her knees, and yet writhing as if in intense agony.  She seemed to be trying to pray, and Agnes caught the words, “Oh, for strength, for strength to endure this agony, and not to murmur.”

Putting her arm around her, Agnes said:  “What is it, cousin Emily?  Can you not tell me?”

Emily started at finding that she was not alone, and then said: 

“Help me to rise, Agnes, and hand me those drops.  I am glad that it is you:  better you than any of the others.  Fasten the door, Agnes.”

Emily reclined upon the sofa, weak and exhausted, the cold beads of perspiration standing on her brow.  Agnes sat in silence beside her, holding her thin white hands in hers.  At length Emily said: 

“Agnes, I try to be patient; I make an endeavor even to be cheerful; but I am indeed a great sufferer, and the anguish I endure seems, at times, more than mortal frame can bear.  It is only by escaping to the solitude of my own room, to endure the agony in secret, that I am enabled to keep it to myself.  I am obliged to practice evasion to escape aunty’s anxious interrogatories; for, in her present state of health, I would not for the world cause her the anxiety and trouble which the knowledge of my sufferings would bring upon her.”

Then, with frequent pauses for rest, Emily told the weeping Agnes all.

“And now,” said she, “dear Agnes, you are very young for scenes like this; but I know that you possess uncommon nerve and courage.  Can you, do you think, sit by my side, and hold my hand through a painful operation?  I can endure it alone, dear, and I intended to; but as accident has revealed my sufferings to you, I feel that it would be a comfort to me to have my hand in that of one I love at that time.”

“I think I can, cousin Emily.  I believe I could do anything for you, dear cousin Emily.”

“I do not want aunty and uncle to know of this till it is all over, Agnes.  They go to the Springs to-morrow, to remain some days, as you know:  and I have arranged with Dr. Rodney to come while they are gone, and bring a surgeon from the city, and it will all be over before they return.”

“And is there no danger, cousin Emily?”

“Danger of what, dear?—­of death?  Oh yes; the chances are many against me; and even if the operation is safely performed, it may not arrest the disease.  But to one who suffers the torture which it is the will of Heaven that I should bear, speedy death would only be a happy release.  And yet, Agnes, do not misunderstand me; I would not for the world do anything to shorten my life of suffering.  Oh no!  ’All the years of my appointed time will I wait till my change come.’  The course I am going to pursue is advised by the physicians, and it may be the means of restoration to health, at least for some years.  Agnes, pray for me.”