been to me the
blessing you have been, dear Ellen."

"Think not of it, dearest Mary," said Ellen. "I ought to be happy, very
happy, and if I am not, it is my own wayward temper. You cannot give me
happiness, Mary; do not let the thought of me disturb you, dearest, kind
as is your wish, it is unavailing."

"Do not say so, Ellen; we are apt to look on sorrow, while it is
confined to our own anxious breasts, as incurable and lasting; but when
once it is confessed, how quickly do difficulties vanish, and the grief
is often gone before we are aware it is departing. Do not, dearest,
magnify it by the encouragement which solitary thought bestows."

"Are there not some sorrows, Mary, which are better ever concealed? Does
not the opening of a wound often make it bleed afresh, whereas, hidden
in our own heart, it remains closed till time has healed it."

"Some there are," said Mary, "which are indeed irremediable, but"--she
paused a moment, then slightly raising herself on her couch, she threw
her arm round Ellen's neck, and said, in a low yet deeply expressive
voice--"is your love, indeed, so hopeless, my poor Ellen? Oh, no, it
cannot be; surely, there is not one whom you have known sufficiently to
give your precious love, can look on you and not return it."

Ellen started, a deep and painful flush rose for a moment to her cheek,
she struggled to speak calmly, to deny the truth of Mary's suspicion,
but she could not, the secret of her heart was too suddenly exposed
before her, and she burst into tears. How quickly will a word, a tone
destroy the well-maintained calmness of years; how strangely and
suddenly will the voice of sympathy lift from the heart its veil.

"You have penetrated my secret," she said, and her voice faltered, "and
I will not deny it; but oh, Mary, let us speak no more of it. When a
woman is weak enough to bestow her affections on one who never sought,
who will never seek them, surely the more darkly they are hidden, the
better for her own peace as well as character. My love was not called
for. I never had aught to hope; and if that unrequited affection be the
destroyer of my happiness, it has sprung from my own weakness, and I
alone have but to bear it."

"But is there no hope, Ellen--none? Do not think so, dearest. If his
affections be still disengaged, is there not hope they may one day be
yours?"

"No, Mary, none. I knew his affections were engaged; I knew he never
could be mine, and yet I loved h