h the second sermon on the
Marriage Ring. She strove valiantly to keep her mind to the godliness
of the discourse, so that it might be of some possible service to
herself; and to keep her voice to the tone that might be of service
to her aunt. Presently she heard the grateful sound which indicated
her aunt's repose, but she knew of experience that were she to stop,
the sound and the sleep would come to an end also. For a whole hour
she persevered, reading the sermon of the Marriage Ring with such
attention to the godly principles of the teaching as she could
give,--with that terrible burden upon her mind.

"Thank you;--thank you; that will do, my dear. Shut it up," said
the sick woman. "It's time now for the draught." Then Dorothy moved
quietly about the room, and did her nurse's work with soft hand, and
soft touch, and soft tread. After that her aunt kissed her, and bade
her sit down and sleep.

"I'll go on reading, aunt, if you'll let me," said Dorothy. But
Miss Stanbury, who was not a cruel woman, would have no more of the
reading, and Dorothy's mind was left at liberty to think of the
proposition that had been made to her. To one resolution she came
very quickly. The period of her aunt's illness could not be a proper
time for marriage vows, or the amenities of love-making. She did not
feel that he, being a man, had offended; but she was quite sure that
were she, a woman, the niece of so kind an aunt, the nurse at the
bed-side of such an invalid,--were she at such a time to consent to
talk of love, she would never deserve to have a lover. And from this
resolve she got great comfort. It would give her an excuse for making
no more assured answer at present, and would enable her to reflect
at leisure as to the reply she would give him, should he ever, by
any chance, renew his offer. If he did not,--and probably he would
not,--then it would have been very well that he should not have been
made the victim of a momentary generosity. She had complained of the
dulness of her life, and that complaint from her had produced his
noble, kind, generous, dear, enthusiastic benevolence towards her.
As she thought of it all,--and by degrees she took great pleasure in
thinking of it,--her mind bestowed upon him all manner of eulogies.
She could not persuade herself that he really loved her, and yet she
was full at heart of gratitude to him for the expression of his love.
And as for herself, could she love him? We who are looking on