r. Lacey."

"Dr. Lacey!--You love Dr. Lacey!" said Fanny, and again she fell back cold
and motionless. A second time Julia restored her to consciousness, but for
an hour she did not speak or scarcely move. At the end of that time,
calling her sister to her, in a low, subdued tone, she said, "Tell me all,
Julia. I can bear it. I am calm now."

The traitress kissed her cheek, and taking one of the little hands in
hers, told her how truly she had loved Dr. Lacey, and how she had
struggled against it when she saw that he loved another. "I have," said
she, "lain awake many a night, and while you slept sweetly, dreaming,
perhaps, of your lover, I have wept bitter tears because I must go alone
through the cold world, unloved and uncared for. And forgive me, Fanny,
but sometimes I have felt angered at you, because you seemed to steal
everybody's love from me. Our old father never speaks to me with the same
affection which marks his manner when addressing you."

"I know it, I know it," said Fanny. "I wish he would not do so, but Dr.
Lacey--Dr. Lacey--I never thought you wanted him to love you; if I had--"

"What would you have done?" asked Julia, with noticeable eagerness.

The voice was mournfully low which replied, "I would have given him up for
you. I could not have married one whom my sister loved." And then she
suddenly added, "It seems doubtful whether he marries that young lady. If
anything should happen to prevent it, he may yet make you his wife."

"And you, what would you do?" asked Julia.

"Oh, it is impossible for me to marry him now," said Fanny. "But if you
were happy with him, I would try to be happy, too."

"God bless you, sweet sister," said Julia; "but it will never be."

Fanny did not reply, and after a moment's silence Julia said, "Sister, if
I were you I would keep all this a secret, and even if I were unhappy, I
would try to assume a forced cheerfulness, for fear people would suspect
the truth, and call me lovesick."

Fanny did not reply to this either. She was trying to still the painful
throbs of her aching heart. Through all the long, weary hours of that
night she was awake. Sometimes she would watch the myriad host of stars,
as they kept on their unwearied course through the clear, blue sky, and
would wonder if there was room beyond them for one so unhappy as she was,
and would muse on the past days of happiness now forever gone, and
although a choking sensation was in her throat, not a tear mo