far as to
retire to her room, but not to bed; she was much too uneasy to do so.
Emmeline had been in very delicate health for some months, and it
appeared to her observant eyes and mind, that now the cause for her
exertion was removed, by the discovery of her long-treasured secret,
that health had really given way, and she was actually ill in body as
well as mind. The burning heat of her forehead and hand, the quick
pulsation of her temples, had alarmed her as predicting fever; and
Ellen, with that quiet resolution and prompt decision, which now
appeared to form such prominent traits in her character, determined on
returning to her cousin's room as soon as she thought she had fallen
asleep, and remain there during the night; that if she were restless,
uneasy, or wakeful, she might, by her presence, be some comfort, and if
these feverish symptoms continued, be in readiness to send for Mr.
Maitland at the first dawn of morning, without alarming her aunt.

"You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline," she said internally,
as she prepared herself for her night's visit by assuming warmer
clothing. "Oh, that your grief may speedily pass away; I cannot bear to
see one so formed for joy as you are grieved. My own sorrows I can bear
without shrinking, without disclosing by one sign what I am internally
suffering. I have been nerved from my earliest years to trial, and it
would be strange indeed did I not seem as you believe me. _I_ know not
what it is to love. _I_ know not the pang of that utter hopelessness
which bows my poor cousin to the earth. Ah, Emmeline, you know not such
_hopelessness_ as mine, gloomy as are your prospects; you can claim the
sympathy, the affection, the consolation, of all those who are dear to
you; there is no need to hide your love, ill-fated as it is, for it is
_returned_--you are beloved; and I, my heart must bleed in secret, for
no such mitigation attends its loss of peace. I dare not seek for
sympathy, or say I love; but why--why am I encouraging these thoughts?"
and she started as if some one could have heard her scarcely-audible
soliloquy. "It is woman's lot to suffer--man's is to _act_, woman's to
_bear_; and such must be mine, and in silence, for even the sympathy of
my dearest relative I dare not ask. Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame to
love one so good, so superior, so holy? because, because he does not
love me, save with a brother's love; and I know he loves another."

The slight frame