ood; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many
nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no
longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this
was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,
made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some
sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make
you!"

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I _could_ do,
which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I
am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her
misery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I
distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.
Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I
suffer."

"Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! And can you
believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck;
"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you
are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away
such happiness as that?"

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You
_can_ have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing
can do away."

"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is
your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you
suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of
his character had been delayed to a later period;--if your engagement
had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,
before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy
confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more d