for the truth, Herbert perceived not her agitation, and, after a
minute's pause, continued tenderly--

"My own cousin, death to you is, I know, not terrible; why then should I
hesitate to impart tidings which to me are full of bliss? The shaft
which bore away my Mary, also entered my heart, and implanted in me the
disease which no mortal skill can cure. Do not chide me for entertaining
an unfounded fancy. Ellen, dear Ellen, I look to you, under heaven, to
support my mother under this affliction. I look to your fond cares to
subdue the pang of parting. You alone of her children will be left near
her, and you can do much to comfort and soothe not only her, but my
father; they will mourn for me, nature will speak, though I go to joy
inexpressible, unutterable! Ellen, speak to me; will you not do this, my
sister, my friend?"

"Give me but a moment," she murmured almost inaudibly, as, overpowered
by increasing faintness, she sunk down on a grassy bank near them, and
buried her face in her hands. Minutes rolled by, and still there was
silence. Herbert sat down beside her, threw his arm around her, and
pressed a brother's kiss upon her cold, damp brow. She started and would
have risen, but strength failed; for a moment her head leaned against
his bosom, and a burst of tears relieved her. "Forgive me, Herbert," she
said, striving at once for composure and voice. "Oh, weak as I am, do
not repent your confidence. It was unexpected, sudden; the idea of
parting was sharper than at the first moment I could bear, but it will
soon be over, very, very soon; do not doubt me, Herbert." She fixed her
mournful eyes upon his face, and her cheek was very pale, "Yes," she
said, with returning strength, "trust me, dear Herbert, I will be to my
aunt, my more than mother, ever as you wish. My every care, my every
energy shall be employed to soften that deep anguish which--" She could
not complete the sentence, but quickly added, "the deep debt of
gratitude I owe her, not a whole life can repay. Long have I felt it,
long wished to devote myself to her and to my uncle, and this charge has
confirmed me in my resolution. Yes, dearest Herbert, while Ellen lives,
never, never shall my beloved aunt be lonely."

Herbert understood not the entire signification of his cousin's words;
he knew not, that simple as they were to his ears, to her they were a
vow sacred and irrevocable. She knew she could never, never love
another, and there was something st