‘You are not so cold, dearest,’ said Albinia.  ‘Have you slept?’

‘I think not.’

‘Are you better?  Have you been comfortable?’

‘Oh yes.’  Then, with a pause, ‘Yes—­it was like being nothing!’

‘You were not faint, I hope?’

’No—­only lying still.  Don’t you know the comfort of not thinking or feeling?’

’Yes; this has been far too much for you.  You have done enough now, my generous Sophy.’

‘Not generous; one can’t give away what one never had.’

‘I think it more gracious to yield without jealousy or bitterness—­’

‘Only not quite base,’ said Sophy.  Then presently, turning on her pillow as though more willing to converse, she said, ’I am glad it was not last year.’

‘We had troubles enough then!’

’Not for that—­because I should have been base then, and hated myself for it all the time.’

‘That you never could have been!’ cried Albinia.  ’But, my dear, you must let me contrive for you; I would not betray you for all the world, but the sight of these two is more than you ought to undergo.  I will not send Genevieve away, but you must go from home.’

‘I don’t think I shall be cross,’ said poor Sophy, simply; ’I should be ashamed.’

’Cross!  It is I who am cross, because I am to blame; but, dearest, think if you are keeping up out of pride; that will never, never do.’

‘I do not believe it is pride,’ said Sophy, meekly; ’at least, I hope not.  I feel humiliated enough, and I think it may be a sort of shame, as well as consideration for them, that would make me wish that no difference should be made.  Do you not think we may let things go on?’ she said, in so humble a manner, that it brought Albinia’s tears, and a kiss was the only answer.  ‘Please tell me,’ said Sophy; ‘for I don’t want to deceive myself.’

‘I am sure I am no judge,’ cried Albinia, ’after the dreadful mischief I have done.’

‘The mischief was in me,’ said Sophy, ’or you could not have done it.  I saw it all when I was lying awake last night, and how it began, or rather it was before I can remember exactly.  I always had craving after something—­a yearning for something to fix myself on—­and after I grew to read and look out into the world, I thought it must be that.  And when I knew I was ugly and disagreeable, I brooded and brooded, and only in my better moments tried to be satisfied with you and papa and the children.’

‘And the All-satisfying, Sophy dear.’

’I tried—­I did—­but it was duty—­not heart.  I used to fancy what might be, if I shot out into beauty and grace—­not admiration, but to have that one thing to lean on.  You see it was all worldly, and only submissive by fits—­generally it was cross repining, yielding because I could not help it—­and so, when the fancy came the throne was ready made, empty, swept, and garnished, for the idol.  I wont talk of all