the burden of
her thoughts. It's perfectly dreadful. Mrs. Linden, do you think she
_can_ live?"

"I hope she may, with careful nursing," was the reply. "We will do all
we can, and leave the event with Providence."

It hardly seemed a kindness to Clemence, when they told her, after she
became conscious, of how near she had been to death, and that only the
kindest care had won her back to life.

"It would have been better to let me die," she said, thinking how little
now she had to live for.

"If God, in his wisdom, saw fit to restore you, Clemence, it was for
some wise purpose of his own," said her friend.

"I know it," she replied patiently; "but I have suffered so much that I
am weary of life. Remember, I am all alone in the world."

"No, not alone, dear," said the lady, "for now that you have no one
else, I intend to claim you. I love you already as a daughter, and I am
going to care for your future."

Clemence was too weak to do anything but yield, and when she was able to
ride out, Mrs. Linden took her to her own home. But although she
recovered sufficiently to walk about the house and garden, and to take
long rides into the country, yet her faithful nurse began to fear that
she would never be really well again.

"She needs a change," said the physician. "A journey would do her good."

So they packed up, and went off to the seaside. The bracing air did for
Clemence what the doctor's medicine had failed to accomplish. In spite
of the languid interest she took in everything, hope grew stronger each
day in the care of her watchful friend. And at last the roses came back
to her cheeks, and when they went back to the city, in the cool
September days, she was strong and well once more.

"Do you know, Clemence, it is six months since you have been under my
charge?" asked Mrs. Linden, as they sat sewing by the bright fire, that
the chilly fall day rendered agreeable.

"Is it possible?" was the startled reply. "How long I have been a burden
on your kindness! Alas! what changes have occurred within a short time."

"I know what you are thinking of now, child, and I did not wish to make
you melancholy by reminding you of the past."

"Oh, Madam," said the girl, "it is never absent from my thoughts. You
surely would not have me forget the great loss I have sustained?"

"No, Clemence," replied the elder, "that would be wrong, but I do not
want you to brood over it. Remember who sent this affliction. 'The Lord
gave