im. Oh, Mary, do not scorn my weakness;
you have wrung my secret from me, do not, oh, do not betray me. There is
no shame in loving one so good, so holy, and yet--and yet--Mary, dearest
Mary, promise me you will not speak it--I cannot rest unless you do; let
it pass your lips to _none_."

"It shall not, my Ellen; be calm, your secret shall die with me,
dearest," replied Mary, earnestly, for Ellen's feelings completely
overpowered her, and bursting sobs choked her utterance.

"For me there is no hope. Oh, could I but see him happy, I should ask no
more; but, oh, to see him miserable, and feel I have no power to
soothe--when--" She paused abruptly, again the burning blood dyed her
cheeks, even her temples with crimson. Mary's eyes were fixed upon her
in sympathy, in love; Ellen fancied in surprise, yet suspicion. With one
powerful effort she conquered herself, she forced back the scalding
tears, the convulsive sob, and bending over Mary, pressed her trembling
lips upon her pale brow.

"Let us speak no more of this, dearest Mary," she said, in a low calm
voice. "May God bless you for your intended kindness. It is over now.
Forgive me, dearest Mary, I have agitated and disturbed you."

"Nay, forgive me, my sweet Ellen. It is I who have given you pain, and
should ask your forgiveness. I thought not of such utter hopelessness. I
had hoped that, ere I departed, I might have seen the dawn of happiness
for you; but I see, I feel now that cannot be. My own Ellen, I need not
tell you the comfort, the blessed comfort of prayer."

For a few minutes there was silence. Ellen had clasped the hand of Mary,
and turned aside her head to conceal the tears that slowly stole down
her cheek. The entrance of Emmeline was a relief to both, and Ellen left
the room; and when she returned, even to Mary's awakened eyes, there
were no traces of agitation. Each week produced a visible change in
Mary; she became weaker and weaker, but her mind retained its energy,
and often her sorrowing friends feared she would pass from the detaining
grasp of love, ere they were aware of the actual moment of her
departure. One evening she begged that all the family might assemble in
her room; she felt stronger, and wished to see them altogether again.
Her wish was complied with, and she joined so cheerfully in the
conversation that passed around, that her mother and Herbert forgot
anxiety. It was a soft and lovely evening; her couch, at her own
request, had bee