y anxious about her sister,
when such a friend might be dying; when a life of such importance to
many was in jeopardy.

"I could do anything, I could bear anything," said Hester, "if I could
be sure that nobody knew. But you found me out, Margaret, and
perhaps--"

"I assure you, I believe you are safe," said Margaret. "You can hide
nothing from me. But, Mrs Grey--and nobody except myself, has watched
you like Mrs Grey--has gone away, I am certain, completely deceived.
But, Hester! my own precious sister, bear with one word from me! Do not
trust too much to your pride."

"I do trust to _my_ pride, and I will," replied Hester, her cheeks in a
glow. "Do you suppose I will allow all in this house, all in the
village, to be pitying me, to be watching how I suffer, when no one
supposes that he gave me cause? It is not to be endured, even in the
bare thought. No. If you do not betray me--"

"I betray you?"

"Well, well! I know you will not: and then I am safe. _My_ pride I can
trust to, and I will."

"It will betray you," sighed Margaret. "I do not want you to parade
your sorrow, God knows! It will be better borne in quiet and secrecy.
What I wish for you is, that you should receive this otherwise than as a
punishment, a disgrace in your own eyes for something wrong. You have
done nothing wrong, nothing that you may not appeal to God to help you
to endure. Take it as a sorrow sent by Him, to be meekly borne, as what
no earthly person has any concern with. Be superior to the opinions of
the people about us, instead of defying them. Pride will give you no
peace: resignation will."

"I am too selfish for this," sighed Hester. "I hate myself, Margaret.
I have not even the grace to love _him_, except for my own sake; and
while he is dying, I am planning to save my pride! I do not care what
becomes of me. Come, Margaret, let us dress and go down. Do not
trouble your kind heart about me: I am not worth it."

This mood gave way a little to Margaret's grief and endearments; but
Hester issued from her chamber for the day in a state of towering pride,
secretly alternating with the anguish of self-contempt.

It was a miserable day, as wretched a party of pleasure as could be
imagined. Mrs Rowland was occupied in thinking, and occasionally
saying, how strangely everything fell out to torment her, how something
always occurred to cross every plan of hers. She talked about this to
her mother, Sophia, and Hes