other?"

"There is only one thing we can do, Hester," said Margaret, resting her
head on her sister's shoulder. "We must make the most of being together
while we can. There must not be the shadow of a cloud between us for a
moment. Our confidence must be as full and free, our whole minds as
absolutely open, as--as I have read and heard that two minds can never
be."

"Those who say so do not know what may be," exclaimed Hester. "I am
sure there is not a thought, a feeling in me, that I could not tell you,
though I know I never could to any one else."

"If I were to lose you, Hester, there are many, many things that would
be shut up in me for ever. There will never be any one on earth to whom
I could say the things that I can tell to you. Do you believe this,
Hester?"

"I do. I know it."

"Then you will never again doubt me, as you certainly have done
sometimes. You cannot imagine how my heart sinks when I see you are
fancying that I care for somebody else more than for you; when you think
that I am feeling differently from you. Oh, Hester, I know every change
of your thoughts by your face; and indeed your thoughts have been
mistaken sometimes."

"They have been wicked, often," said Hester, in a low voice. "I have
sometimes thought that I must be hopelessly bad, when I have found that
the strongest affection I have in the world has made me unjust and cruel
to the pet son I love best. I have a jealous temper, Margaret; and a
jealous temper is a wicked temper."

"Now you are unkind to yourself, Hester. I do believe you will never
doubt me again."

"I never will. And if I find a thought of the kind rising in me, I will
tell you the moment I am aware of it."

"Do, and I will tell you the moment I see a trace of such a thought in
your face. So we shall be safe. We can never misunderstand each other
for more than a moment."

By the gentle leave of Heaven, all human beings have visions. Not the
lowest and dullest but has the coarseness of his life relieved at
moments by some scenery of hope rising through the brooding fogs of his
intellect and his heart. Such visitations of mercy are the privilege of
the innocent, and the support of the infirm. Here were the lonely
sisters sustained in bereavement and self-rebuke, by the vision of a
friendship which should be unearthly in its depth and freedom; they were
so happy for the hour, that nothing could disturb them.

"I do not see," observed Hester, "t