“And He will,” replied Ellen, in a low, steady voice; and gently withdrawing her hand from Mr. Howard’s, she softly but quickly left the library.  But half an hour elapsed, and Ellen was once more seated by her aunt’s couch.  The struggle of that half hour we will not follow; it was too sacred, too painful to be divulged, and many, many solitary hours were thus spent in suffering, known only to herself and to her God.

“You have been long away from me, my Ellen, or else my selfish wish to have you again near me has made me think so,” Mrs. Hamilton said that eventful morning.

“Have you then missed me, my dear aunt?  I am glad of it, for comfort as it is to be allowed to remain always with yon, it is even greater pleasure to think you like to have me near you,” replied Ellen.

“Can I do otherwise, my own Ellen?  Where can I find a nurse so tender, affectionate, and attentive as you are?  Who would know so well how to cheer and soothe me as the child whose smallest action proves how much she loves me?”

Tears glistened in the eyes of Ellen as her aunt spoke, for if she had wanted fresh incentive for exertion, those simple words would have given it.  Oh, how much encouragement may be given in one sentence from those we love; how is every effort to please lightened by the consciousness it is appreciated; how is every duty sweetened when we feel we are beloved.

Mrs. Hamilton knew not how that expression of her feelings had fallen on the torn heart of her niece; she guessed not one-half Ellen endured in secret for her sake, but she felt, and showed she felt, the full value of the unremitting affectionate attentions she received.

Days, weeks passed by; at length, Mrs. Hamilton’s extreme debility began to give place to the more restless weariness of convalescence.  It was comparatively an easy task to sit in continued silence by the couch, actively yet quietly to anticipate her faintest wish, and attend to all the duties of nurse, which demanded no exertion in the way of talking, and other efforts at amusement; there were then very many hours that Ellen’s saddened thoughts could dwell on the painful past.

She struggled to behold heaven’s mercy in affliction, and rapidly, more rapidly than she was herself aware of, was this young and gentle girl progressing in the paths of grace.  Had Herbert and Mary both lived and been united, Ellen would, in all probability, have at length so conquered her feelings, as to have been happy in the marriage state, and though she could not have bestowed the first freshness of young affection, she would ever have so felt and acted as to be in very truth, as Lord St. Eval had said, a treasure to any man who had the felicity to call her his.  Had her cousin indeed married, Ellen might have felt it incumbent on her as an actual duty so to conquer herself; but now that he was dead she felt it no sin to love, in devoting herself to his parents in their advancing