Rose (Helen thought) delivered the petition of “lead us not into temptation” with deeper feeling than usual; and instead of rising when Helen rose, and exchanging with her the kiss of sisterly affection, Rose buried her face in her hands; while her cousin, seated opposite the small glass which stood on their little dressing-table, commenced curling her hair, as if that day, which had completed a revolution in her way of thinking, had been as smooth as all the other days of her short calendar.  The candle was extinguished, and Helen slept profoundly.  The moon shone in brightly through the latticed window, whose leaden cross-bars chequered the sanded floor.  Rose looked earnestly upon the face of the sleeper, and so bright it was, that she saw, or fancied she saw, a smile of triumph curling on her lip.  She crept quietly out of bed, and leaned her throbbing temples against the cool glass.  How deserted the long street of Abbeyweld appeared; the shadows of the opposite trees and houses lay prostrate across the road—­the aspect of the village street was lonely, very lonely and sad—­there was no hum from the school—­no inquisitive eyes peeped from the casements—­no echoing steps upon the neatly-gravelled footpath—­the old elm-tree showed like a mighty giant, standing out against the clear calm sky—­and there was one star, only one, sparkling amid its branches—­a diamond of the heavens, shedding its brightness on the earth.  The stillness was positively oppressive.  Rose felt as if every time she inhaled the air, she disturbed the death-like quiet of the scene.  A huge shadow passed along the ledge of the opposite cottage; her nerves were so unstrung that she started back as it advanced.  It was only their own gentle cat, whose quick eye recognised its mistress, and without waiting for invitation, crawled quickly from its eminence, and came rubbing itself against the glass, and then moved stealthily away, intent upon the destruction of some unsuspicious creature, who, taught by nature, believes that with night comes safety.

Almost at the end of the street, the darkness was as it were divided by a ray of light, that neither flickered nor wavered.  What a picture it brought at once before her!—­the pale, lame grandchild of old Jenny Oram, watching by the dying bed of the only creature that had ever loved her—­her poor deaf grandmother.  And the girl’s great trouble was, that the old woman could neither see to read the Word of God herself, nor hear her when she read it to her; but the lame girl had no time to waste with grief, so she plied her needle rapidly through the night-watches, not daring to shed a tear upon the work, or damp her needle with a sigh.  Rose was not as sorry for her as she would have been at any other time, for individual sorrow has few sympathies; but the more she thought of the lonely lame girl, the less became her own trouble, and she might have gone to bed with the consciousness which, strange to say, brings consolation, that there was one very near more