“Because I felt anxious about you,” said Mrs. Weston, “and came, as I have often before, to be assured that you were well and enjoying repose.  I find you still up; and now, my daughter, there is a question I have feared to ask you, but can no longer delay it.  By all the love that is between us, by the tie that should bind an only child to a widowed mother, will you tell me what are the thoughts that are oppressing you?  I have been anxious for your health, but is there not more cause to fear for your happiness?”

“I am well enough, dear mother,” said Alice, with some irritation of manner, “Do not concern yourself about me.  If you will go to bed, I will too.”

“You cannot thus put me off,” said Mrs. Weston.  “Alice, I charge you, as in the presence of God, to tell me truly:  do you love Walter Lee?”

“It would be strange if I did not,” said Alice, in a low voice.  “Have we not always been as brother and sister?”

“Not in that sense, Alice; do not thus evade me.  Do you love him with an affection which should belong to your cousin, to whom you are solemnly engaged, who has been the companion of your childhood, and who is the son of the best friend that God ever raised up to a widow and a fatherless child?”

Alice turned her head away, and after a moment answered, “Yes, I do, mother, and I cannot help it.”  But on turning to look at her mother, she was shocked at the expression of agony displayed on her countenance.  Her hand was pressed tightly over her heart, her lips quivered, and her whole person trembled.  It was dreadful to see her thus agitated; and Alice, throwing her arms around her mother exclaimed, “What is it, dearest mother?  Be not look so deathlike.  I cannot bear to see you so.”

Oh! they speak falsely who say the certainty of evil can be better borne than suspense.  Watcher by the couch of suffering, sayest thou so?  Now thou knowest there is no hope, thy darling must be given up.  There is no mistaking that failing pulse, and that up-turned eye.  A few hours ago, there was suspense, but there was hope; death was feared, but not expected; his arm was outstretched, but the blow was not descending; now, there is no hope.

Mrs. Weston had long feared that all was not well with Alice—­that while her promise was given to one, her heart had wandered to another; yet she dreaded to meet the appalling certainty; now with her there is no hope.  The keen anguish with which she contended was evident to her daughter, who was affrighted at her mother’s appearance.  So much so, that for the first time for months she entirely forgot the secret she had been hiding in her heart.  The young in their first sorrow dream there are none like their own.  It is not until time and many cares have bowed us to the earth, that we look around, beholding those who have suffered more deeply than ourselves.

Accustomed to self-control, Mrs. Weston was not long in recovering herself; taking her daughter’s hand within her own, and looking up in her fair face, “Alice,” she said, “you listened with an unusual interest to the details of suffering of one whom you never saw.  I mean Walter Lee’s mother; she died.  I can tell you of one who has suffered, and lived.