ak of the Blood that cleanseth from all sin. Then it had been a
moment's glimpse. She had sought it earnestly ever since, and at length
it had come to nestle within her own bosom. It was not sight, it was
touch--it was embracing and holding fast.

Alas! the sight was hidden from Bertha. She moodily turned aside in
vexation, as though her last trust had failed her. In vain did Miss
Fennimore, feeling that she had led her to the brink of an abyss of depth
unknown, till she was tottering on the verge, lavish on her the most
tender cares. They were requited with resentful gloom, that the
governess felt to be so just towards herself that she would hardly have
been able to lift up her head but for the new reliance that gave peace to
deepening contrition.

That was a bad night, and the day was worse. Bertha had more strength,
but more fever; and the much-enduring Phoebe could hardly be persuaded to
leave her to Miss Charlecote at dusk, and air herself with her brothers
in the garden. The weather was close and misty, and Honora set open the
door to admit the air from the open passage window. A low, soft, lulling
sound came in, so much softened by distance that the tune alone showed
that it was an infant school ditty sung by Maria, while rocking herself
in her low chair over the school-room fire. Turning to discover whether
the invalid were annoyed by it, Honor beheld the hard, keen little eyes
intently fixed, until presently they filled with tears; and with a heavy
sigh, the words broke forth, 'Oh! to be as silly as she is!'

'As _selig_, you mean,' said Honor, kindly.

'It is the same thing,' she said, with a bitter ring in her poor worn
voice.

'No, it is not weakness that makes your sister happy. She was far less
happy before she learnt to use her powers lovingly.'

With such earnestness that her stuttering was very painful to hear, she
exclaimed, 'Miss Charlecote, I can't recollect things--I get puzzled--I
don't say what I want to say. Tell me, is not my brain softening or
weakening? You know Maria had water on the head once!' and her accents
were pitiably full of hope.

'Indeed, my dear, you are not becoming like Maria.'

'If I were,' said Bertha, certainly showing no such resemblance, 'I
suppose I should not know it. I wonder whether Maria be ever conscious
of her _Ich_,' said she, with a weary sigh, as if this were a companion
whence she could not escape.

'Dear child, your _Ich_ would be set asid