ed; she did not pray that his life might be
granted only if it was for his good; she could ask nothing but that her
own beloved brother might be spared to herself, and she ended her prayer
as unsubdued, and therefore as miserable, as when she began it.

The first intelligence that arrived was brought by Uncle Roger and
Beatrice, who, rather to their surprise, came back in the gig, and
greatly relieved their minds with the intelligence of Frederick's life,
and of Philip Carey's arrival. Henrietta had sprung eagerly up on their
first entrance, with parted lips and earnest eyes, and listened to their
narration with trembling throbbing hope, but with scarcely a word; and
when she heard that Fred still lay senseless and motionless, she again
turned away, and hid her face on the arm of the sofa, without one look
at Beatrice, reckless of the pang that shot through the heart of one
flesh from that trying watch over her brother. Beatrice hoped for one
word, one kiss, and looked wistfully at the long veil of half uncurled
ringlets that floated over the crossed arms on which her forehead
rested, and meantime submitted with a kind of patient indifference to
her grandmother's caress, drank hot wine and water, sat by the fire,
and finally was sent upstairs to change her dress. Too restless, too
anxious, too wretched to stay there alone, longing for some interchange
of sympathy,--but her mind too turbid with agitation to seek it where it
would most surely have been found,--she hastened down again. Grandmamma
was busied in giving directions for the room which was being prepared
for Fred; Uncle Roger had walked out to meet those who were conveying
him home: and Henrietta was sitting in the window, her forehead resting
against the glass, watching intently for their arrival.

"Are they coming?" asked Beatrice anxiously.

"No!" was all the answer, hardly uttered, and without looking round, as
if her cousin's entrance was perfectly indifferent to her. Beatrice went
up and stood by her, looking out for a few minutes; then taking the hand
that lay in her lap, she said in an imploring whisper, "Henrietta, you
forgive me?"

The hand lay limp and lifeless in hers, and Henrietta scarcely raised
her face as she answered, in a low, languid, dejected voice, "Of course,
Bee, only I am so wretched. Don't talk to me."

Her head sunk again, and Beatrice stepped hastily back to the fire, with
a more bitter feeling than she had ever known. This was no