"I never knew what it was to be lively and joyous even as a child, and as years increase, is it likely that I should?
I am contented with my lot, and with so many blessings around, should I not be ungrateful were I otherwise ?" "You evade my question, Ellen, and convince me more and more that I am right.

Ah, you know not how my last hour would be soothed, could I feel that I had done aught to restore happiness to one who has been to me the blessing you have been, dear Ellen." "Think not of it, dearest Mary," said Ellen.

"I ought to be happy, very happy, and if I am not, it is my own wayward temper.

You cannot give me happiness, Mary; do not let the thought of me disturb you, dearest, kind as is your wish, it is unavailing." "Do not say so, Ellen; we are apt to look on sorrow, while it is confined to our own anxious breasts, as incurable and lasting; but when once it is confessed, how quickly do difficulties vanish, and the grief is often gone before we are aware it is departing.

Do not, dearest, magnify it by the encouragement which solitary thought bestows." "Are there not some sorrows, Mary, which are better ever concealed?
Does not the opening of a wound often make it bleed afresh, whereas, hidden in our own heart, it remains closed till time has healed it." "Some there are," said Mary, "which are indeed irremediable, but"-- she paused a moment, then slightly raising herself on her couch, she threw her arm round Ellen's neck, and said, in a low yet deeply expressive voice--"is your love, indeed, so hopeless, my poor Ellen?
Oh, no, it cannot be; surely, there is not one whom you have known sufficiently to give your precious love, can look on you and not return it." Ellen started, a deep and painful flush rose for a moment to her cheek, she struggled to speak calmly, to deny the truth of Mary's suspicion, but she could not, the secret of her heart was too suddenly exposed before her, and she burst into tears.