for I should have nothing."

Henrietta's grief was the more ungovernable that it was chiefly selfish;
there was little thought of her mother,--little, indeed, for anything
but the personal loss to herself. She hid her face in her hands, and
sobbed violently, though without a tear, while Mrs. Langford vainly
tried to make her hear of patience and resignation, turning away, and
saying, "I can't be patient--no, I can't!" and then again repeating her
brother's name with all the fondest terms of endearment.

Then came a sudden change: it was possible that he yet lived--and she
became certain that he had been only stunned for a moment, and required
her grandmamma to be so too. Mrs. Langford, at the risk of a cruel
disappointment, was willing to encourage her hope; but Henrietta,
fancying herself treated like a petted child, chose to insist on being
told really and exactly what was her view of the case. Then she was
urgent to go out and meet the others, and learn the truth; but this Mrs.
Langford would not permit. It was in kindness, to spare her some fearful
sight, which might shock and startle her, but Henrietta was far from
taking it so; her habitual want of submission made itself felt in spite
of her usual gentleness, now that she had been thrown off her balance,
and she burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

In such a dreadful interval of suspense, her conduct was, perhaps,
scarcely under her own control; and it is scarcely just to mention it
as a subject of blame. But, be it remembered that it was the effect of
a long previous selfishness and self-will; quiet, amiable selfishness;
gentle, caressing self-will; but no less real, and more perilous and
deceitful. But for this, Henrietta would have thought more of her
mother, prepared for her comfort, and braced herself in order to be a
support to her; she would have remembered how terrible must be the
shock to her grandmother in her old age, and how painful must be the
remembrances thus excited of the former bereavement; and in the attempt
to console her, the sense of her own sorrow would have been in some
degree relieved; whereas she now seemed to forget that Frederick
was anything to any one but herself. She prayed, but it was one wild
repetition of "O, give him back to me!--save his life!--let him be safe
and well!" She had no room for any other entreaty; she did not call
for strength and resignation on the part of herself and her mother, for
whatever might be appoint