“Oh! why has God made me as I am?” she murmured.  “No one loves me.  They do not know me; they know how bad I am—­but, oh! they never dream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is denied me.  How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am I greeted!  There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interest in me.  I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proud of Ann’s beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I am possessed of talent or not.  They think I am cold and heartless, because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; they have turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up in my own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride, its sorrow.  They have made me selfish, disobliging, and disagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg the love they are so careless of bestowing.  And yet, why am I so proud and so bitter?  I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay; then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable.  I am not so now.  Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of my nature were called out.  Now—­oh!  I did not know I could so change; I did not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy.  I did not know myself!”

Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if it was swelled almost to bursting.  “After a storm, there comes a calm,” is a truism well known.  In about half an hour, she was sleeping profoundly, from mere exhaustion of feeling.  But her face was pale, and sad to look upon, even in her sleep.

When Ann returned home, at a late hour, she glanced hastily at the bed, to see if she had retired, and was sleeping.  More than once during the evening her heart had reproached her for the part she had acted.  With a noiseless step she approached Christine, and bent over her.  The tear-drop upon her pale cheek, revealed the unconscious girl to her in a new character.  How her conscience smote her, for the grief upon that countenance, now so subdued by the spirit of sleep!  Its meek sadness and tenderness stirred in her bosom feelings she had seldom experienced.  She felt and understood better than ever before, her sister’s proud reserve with herself, as well as every one else.  She kissed away the tear, and knelt at the bedside in prayer, a thing she had not done for years.  A flood of tender and self-reproachful feelings came over her; the spring was touched, and she wept aloud.  Christine started up, and murmured a few broken sentences, before she was fully conscious of the meaning of the scene.

“What is the matter, Ann, are you crying?” she at length asked, as her sister lifted up her face.  Ann arose from her knees; she hesitated, she felt as if she could throw herself into Christine’s arms, and weep freely as she asked forgiveness for her conduct.  She felt that she would be affectionately pardoned.  And yet she stood silent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while—­something held her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, a gush of holy feeling.  It was pride.  She could not bring herself to speak words of penitence and humility.  But she did not turn away from the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, and the tears rolled slowly down her face.