tal health neither grew worse
nor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if her
constitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slow
fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soon
have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or
grief alone, though some die of inherent maladies which the tortures of
those passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound by
nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered; their
beauty and bloom perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought to
a certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility,
and emaciation. People think, as they see them gliding languidly about,
that they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease from
among the healthy and happy. This does not happen. They live on; and
though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and
serenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep
away, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree late into autumn:
having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of
winter.

Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most
people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself. She felt
in no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite was
diminished; she knew the reason. It was because she wept so much at
night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it. Sleep was
coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In the far
future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery
should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though
perhaps never again happy.

Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit, to comply with the frequent
invitations of their acquaintance. This she evaded doing. She could not
be cheerful in company; she felt she was observed there with more
curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their
advice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her in
a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they
knew she had been "disappointed," as custom phrases it; by whom, they
were not certain.

Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace young
gentlemen--quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should always
avoid them. Grief and calamity they despise; they seem to