just as Elizabeth had
seen and felt in many a bright and happy hour not so long
past. The same summer breath, and the summer so different!
Elizabeth could hardly bear it. She longed to rush up stairs
where there was somebody; but then she must not; and then the
remembrance that somebody was there quieted her again. That
thought stirred another train, the old contrast between him
and herself, the contrast between his condition and hers, now
brought more painfully than ever home. "He is ready to meet
anything," she thought, -- "nothing can come amiss to him; -- he
is as ready for that world as for this -- and more!" --

The impression of the words he had read that evening came back
to her afresh, and the recollection of the face with which he
had read them, -- calm, happy, and at rest; -- and Elizabeth
threw herself off the sofa and kneeled down to lay her head
and arms upon it, in mere agony of wish to change something,
or rather of the felt want that something should be changed. O
that she were at peace like him! O that she had like him a
sure home and possession beyond the reach of sickness and
death! O that she were that rectified, self-contained, pure,
strong spirit, that he was! -- The utmost of passionate wish
was in the tears that wept out these yearnings of heart --
petitions they half were, -- for her mind in giving them form,
had a half look to the only possible power that could give
them fruition. But it was with only the refreshment of tears
and exhaustion that she laid herself on her couch and went to
sleep.

Clam had carried away her blanket bed and put out the lamps,
before Elizabeth awoke the next morning. It was a question
whether the room looked drearier by night or by day. She got
up and went to the window. Clam had pulled up the blinds. The
light of the summer morning was rising again, but it shone
only without; all was darkness inside. Except that light-
surrounded watcher up stairs. How Elizabeth's heart blessed
him.

The next thing was, to get ready to receive his report. That
morning's toilet was soon made, and Elizabeth sat waiting. He
might come soon, or he might not; for it was early, and he
might not know whether she was awake and risen yet. She was
unaccustomed, poor child, to a waiting of pain; and her heart
felt tired and sore already from the last forty-eight hours of
fears and hopes. Fears and hopes were in strong life now, but
a life that had become very tender to every touch. Cl