Hamilton dared not encourage the hope which he had never felt but his bosom swelled with love and almost veneration for the gentle being, to whose care Mr. Maitland had assured him the recovery of his beloved wife was, under Providence, greatly owing.  He longed to speak of comfort; but, alas! what could he say? he would have praised, encouraged, but there was that about his niece that utterly forbade it; for it silently yet impressively told whence that sustaining strength arose.

It was when Mrs. Hamilton was beginning to recover, that still more active exertions on the part of Ellen were demanded.  Every effort was now made to prevent her relapsing into that despondency which convalescence so often engenders, however we may strive to resist it.  She was ready at a minute’s notice to comply with and often to anticipate her aunt’s most faintly-hinted wishes; she would read to her, sing her favourite airs, or by a thousand little winning arts unconsciously entice the interest of her aunt to her various pursuits, as had been her wont in former days.  There was no appearance of effort on her part, and Mrs. Hamilton insensibly, at first, but surely felt that with her strength her habitual cheerfulness was returning, and fervently she blessed her God for this abundant mercy.  No exertion on her side was wanting to become to her husband and household as she had been before the death of her beloved son; she felt the beauteous flower was transplanted above; the hand of the reaper had laid it low, though the eye of faith beheld it in perfect undying loveliness, and though the mother’s heart yet sorrowed, ’twas a sorrow now in which no pain was mingled.

One evening they had been speaking, among other subjects, of Lilla Grahame, whose letters, Mrs. Hamilton had observed, were not written in her usual style.  Too well did Ellen guess the reason; once only the poor girl had alluded to Edward’s supposed fate, but that once had more than sufficiently betrayed to Ellen’s quickly-excited sympathy the true nature of her feelings towards him.  As Lilla had not, however, written in perfect confidence, but still as if she feared to write too much on emotions she scarcely understood herself, Ellen had not answered her as she would otherwise have done.  That her sympathy was Lilla’s was very clearly evident, but as the secrecy preserved towards Mrs. Hamilton had been made known to her by Emmeline, she had not written again on the subject, but yet Ellen was not deceived; in every letter she received she could easily penetrate where Lilla’s anxious thoughts were wandering.  Of Cecil Grahame there were still no tidings, and, all circumstances considered, it did not seem strange she should often be sorrowful and anxious.  On dismissing this subject, Mrs. Hamilton had asked Ellen to sing to her, and selected, as a very old favourite, “The Graves of the Household.”  She had always forgotten it, she said, before, when Ellen wished her to select one she preferred.  She was surprised that Ellen had not reminded her of it, as it had once been an equal favourite with her.  For a moment Ellen hesitated, and then hastened to the piano.  In a low, sweet, yet unfaltering voice, she complied with her aunt’s request; once only her lip quivered, for she could not sing that verse without the thought of Edward.