ll in the morning."

"God grant you may, my sweet one. What has come over you?"

"Tea is ready," said Cousin Janet. "Let us go in to it, and then have
prayers, and all go to bed early. Why Cousin Weston, you are getting quite
dissipated in your old age; coming home to tea at this hour; I suppose I
shall begin such practices next."

Miss Janet's suggestion of retiring early, was followed. Phillis came in to
see how Alice's head was, and recommended brown paper and vinegar. She made
no comment on her appearance, but did not wonder that Lydia was struck with
the expression of her countenance. There was an uneasiness that was foreign
to it; not merely had the glow of health departed, there was something in
its place, strange there. It was like the storm passing over the beautiful
lake; the outline of rock, and tree, and surface, is to be seen, but its
tranquil beauty is gone; and darkness and gloom are resting where has been
the home of light, and love, and beauty.

Alice undressed and went to bed; her mother raised all the windows, put out
the candle, and laid down beside her. Hoping that she would fall asleep,
she did not converse, but Alice after a few minutes, called her.

"What is it, Alice?"

"Did you hear what Cousin Janet said to Lydia, to-night, mother? God hates
those who deceive."

"Why think of that now, my love?"

"Because it refers to me. She did not mean it for me, but it came home to
my heart."

"To _your_ heart? That has always been truth and candor itself. Try and
banish such thoughts. If you were well, fancies like these would not affect
you."

"They are not fancies, they are realities," said Alice. She sighed and
continued, "Am I not deceiving the kind protector and friend of my
childhood? Oh, mother, if he knew all, how little would he love me! And
Arthur, can it be right for me to be engaged to him, and to deceive him,
too?"

"Dear Alice, how often have we talked about this, and hoped you were
satisfied as to the propriety of being silent on the subject at present.
Your uncle's health is very feeble; he is subject to sudden and alarming
attacks of sickness, and easily thrown into a state of agitation that
endangers his life. Would you run such a risk? What a grief would it be to
him to know that the hopes of years were to be destroyed, and by one whom
he had nursed in his own bosom as a child. Poor Arthur, too! away from home
so long--trusting you with such confidence, looking forward with