“Your squire’s wife?”

“Yes, and Julia and Ermine had come every day to learn lessons with her daughters.  I was too young; but as long as she lived we were all like one family.  How kind she was!  How she helped us through those frightful weeks!”

“Of your sister’s illness?  It must have lasted long?”

“Long?  Oh longer than long!  No one thought of her living.  The doctors said the injury was too extensive to leave any power of rallying; but she was young and strong, and did not die in the torture, though people said that such an existence as remained to her was not worth the anguish of struggling back to it.  I think my father only prayed that she might suffer less, and Julia stayed on and on, thinking each day would be the last, till Dr. Long could not spare her any longer; and then Lady Alison nursed her night after night and day after day, till she had worn herself into an illness, and when the doctors spoke of improvement, we only perceived worse agony.  It was eight months before she was even lifted up in bed, and it was years before the burns ceased to be painful or the constitution at all recovered the shock; and even now weather tells on her, though since we have lived here she has been far better than I ever dared to hope.”

“Then you consider her still recovering?”

“In general health she is certainly greatly restored, and has strength to attempt more, but the actual injury, the contraction, can never be better than now.  When we lived at Richmond she had constantly the best advice, and we were told that nothing more could be hoped for.”

“I wonder more and more at her high spirits.  I suppose that was what chiefly helped to carry her through?”

“I have seen a good many people,” said Alison, pausing, “but I never did see any one so happy!  Others are always wanting something; she never is.  Every enjoyment seems to be tenfold to her what it is to other people; she sees the hopeful side of every sorrow.  No burthen is a burthen when one has carried it to her.”

As Alison spoke, she pushed open the narrow green door of the little lodging-house, and there issued a weak, sweet sound of voices:  “The strain upraise of joy and praise.”  It was the same that had met their ears at the school-door, but the want of body in the voices was fully compensated by the heartfelt ring, as if here indeed was praise, not practice.

“Aunt Ailie!  O Aunt Ailie!” cried the child, as the room-door opened and showed the little choir, consisting of herself, her aunt, and the small maid of the house, “you should not have come, you were not to hear us till Trinity Sunday.”

Explanations were given, and Miss Curtis was welcomed, but Alison, still too much moved for ordinary conversation, slipped into the bedroom adjoining, followed by her sister’s quick and anxious eye, and half-uttered inquiry.

“I am afraid it is my fault,” said Grace; “she has been telling me about your accident.”