ength of mind, which when roused, could and would bend
others to her will. A slight, contemptuous smile was on her lip, as
she picked up the glove which had fallen on the floor.

"I'll sew the button on, Ann," said Christine, taking it from her,
and looking up seriously, but with a compressed expression about her
face. Her cheeks burned; there was a reproof in her steady gaze,
before which Ann's scornful smile vanished. "No, Christine, I will
wait on myself," she answered in a rigid tone.

"Very well," and Christine turned to the window again. She had not
quailed before her sister's look, but its bitter contempt rankled in
her heart, and poisoned the current of her thoughts. Not a word was
spoken, when Ann with her bonnet on, left their apartment. The front
door closed; Christine listened to the sound of her sister's voice
in the street a moment, then rose from her chair, and threw herself
upon the bed, sobbing violently.

"Oh! why has God made me as I am?" she murmured. "No one loves me.
They do not know me; they know how bad I am--but, oh! they never
dream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is denied
me. How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am I
greeted! There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interest
in me. I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proud
of Ann's beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I am
possessed of talent or not. They think I am cold and heartless,
because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; they
have turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up in
my own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride,
its sorrow. They have made me selfish, disobliging, and
disagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg the
love they are so careless of bestowing. And yet, why am I so proud
and so bitter? I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay;
then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable. I am not so now.
Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of my
nature were called out. Now--oh! I did not know I could so change; I
did not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy.
I did not know myself!"

Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if it
was swelled almost to bursting. "After a storm, there comes a calm,"
is a truism well known. In about half an hour, she was sleeping
profoundly, from mere exhaustion