n? To whom could she with
confidence turn for counsel, protection, support, and love? To whom but
Willie? And Willie had given his heart to another--and Gertrude would
soon be left alone! No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted
weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself
sick, faint, and exhausted. And then she thought she heard voices, as in
her childhood, whispering, "Gerty!--Gerty!--poor little Gerty!" She sank
upon her knees, her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet
resignation of her countenance gave evidence that in her prayer to God
her soul held deep communion with its Maker, and once more her spirit
was uttering the simple words, "Here am I, Lord!"

Oh, blessed religion, which can sustain the heart in such an hour as
this! Oh, blessed faith and trust which, when earthly support fails us,
and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul
above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its God!

And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and sees Emily,
whom she believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety and the sobs of
Gertrude banished slumber, is standing by her side.

"Gertrude," said she, "are you in trouble, and did you seek to hide it
from me? Do not turn from me, Gertrude!" and, throwing her arms around
her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, "Tell me all,
my darling! What is the matter with my poor child?"

And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to her the only
secret she had ever kept from her; and Emily wept as she listened, and
when Gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart,
exclaiming with an excitement which Gertrude had never before witnessed
in the usually placid blind girl, "Strange, strange, that you, too,
should be thus doomed! Oh, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep
together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is less bitter than mine!"

And then in the darkness of that midnight hour was Gertrude's confidence
rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty
years before had blighted Emily's youth, and which was still vivid to
her recollection casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her
blindness was but a single feature.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A TALE OF SORROW.

"I was younger than you, Gertrude," said she, "when my trial came, and
hardly the same person in any respect that I have been since you first
knew