faintly, very faintly returned; and then the
tears, which had so slowly gathered into her
eyes fell in a few large drops over her faded
cheeks.

"'This is lonely, desolate work, do what we
will,' I said, as a sort of answer to these few
large tears, falling so quietly and still, and
without convulsion of features—the tears of a
strong but softened mind. 'To be sick, and
without familiar faces—to be sick, and among
strangers—is a sorrowful, sorrowful thing—
but we do our best.'

"'O, you are good—very good,' she said.

"'There is nothing I feel so much myself
as this destitution of the heart; solitude in
sickness is to me almost more than I can bear;
and, therefore, it is, perhaps, that I am almost
troublesome in offering my society to those
here who have not many friends and visitors
—especially to the young. I can bear solitude
myself, better now, badly as I do bear it, than
when I was young. Society seems, to the
young, like the vital air upon which they
exist.'

"'Yes, perhaps so,' she said, after musing
a little—'yes. So long as there was one near
me whom I loved, I could get on—better or
worse—but I could get on. But she is gone.
Others whom I have loved are far—far away.
The solitude of the heart! yes, that kills one
at last.'

"'Then will you try to make a friend of me?
A new friend can never be like an old friend.
Yet, when the old wine is drawn down to the
dregs, we accept the new, although we still
say the old is better.'

"'How very kindly you speak to me! You
have none of the pride of compassion,' she
said, fixing her lovely eyes, filled with an
earnest, intelligent expression, full upon mine.
'You will not humble me, whilst you
serve me.'

"'Humble you! My dear young lady!
That, I hope, indeed, would be far from me—
from every one of us.'

"'I dare say so—as you say it. I have seen
none of the ladies, only the matron, Mrs.
Penrose, and a friend of mine, to whom I owe
much; but they are both so inferior to myself in
habits and education, that I don't think they
could humble me if they tried. The insolence
of my inferiors, I can defy—the condescensions
of my superiors, are what I dread.'

"I saw in this little speech, something that
opened to me, as I thought, one side of her
character. All the notice of it, however,
which I took, was to say, ' We must not exact
too much from each other. A person may
have a very single-hearted and sincere desire
to serve us, and yet be somewhat awkward
in conferring benefits. We must not be unreasonable.
Where people do their best to be
kind, we must accept the will for the deed,
and besides . . . .'

"'You mean to say that benefits may be
accepted ungraciously,'—and she laid her hand
upon mine, and pressed it with some fervour.

' Yes, that is true. We may, in the pride of
our unsubdued and unregulated hearts, be
captious, exacting, and unjust. We may be
very, very ungrateful.'

"Do I tire you with relating these things?"
said the lady, breaking off, and addressing
the fallen man. "Shall I pass on to others?
Yet there are few events to relate. The
history of this life of a few months is comprised
in conversations. I thought you
would probably like to hear them.

"I do like to hear them. I adjure you,
solemnly, to omit nothing that you can remember
of them. She was a noble creature."
And he burst forth with a bitter cry.

"She was a noble creature!

"I sat with her some time that day, and
learned some little of her history; but she
was very reserved as to details and explanations.
She told me that she had once lived in
great affluence; but that a sudden reverse of
fortune had ruined her father, who had been
obliged to quit the country; and that she and
her sister had found it necessary immediately
to set about getting their own livelihood.
Only one course was open to either of them
—that of becoming governesses in private
families, or teachers at schools. They had
wished to adopt the latter course, which
would have enabled them to keep together,
but had not been able to provide themselves
with situations; so they had been compelled
to separate."

"'My sister,' she said, 'took a situation in
London: I was obliged to accept one that
offered in a distant county, so tliat we were
entirely parted; but in such cases one cannot
choose. My dear Clementina's accomplishments
were such as the family in London
wanted; mine suited those who offered me
the place in the country, or I would have
exchanged with her. But it was not to be.
Things in this miserable world are strangely
ordered.'

"'For the best,'' I said, 'when their issues
are known.'

"'Who shall assure us of that? and when
are their issues known?' she asked, with
some bitterness. 'It would need great faith,
when one receives a heavy injury, to believe
it was fraught with good, and well intended.'

"'It would, indeed! Yet, we must have that
faith. We ought to have that faith in Him,
the All-wise, Merciful, and Good. We should
have it,—should we not?—whatever appearances
might be, in an earthly friend of
this description.'

"'Ah! but we see and know such a
friend.'

"'We ought to know, though we cannot see,
that other friend.'

"'Ah! well—it is so, I dare say. But, oh,
there are moments in life when the cruel blow
is so real, and the consolation so illusory!'

"'Seems so real—seems so illusory! Ah!