The Germans say, “Give the Devil a hair, and he will get your whole head.”  Luckily it is the same with the good angels.  I have seen a hundred examples to prove it true.  I will give the one nearest my heart.

Lina’s generous aspiration at the birth of her baby brother was the hair.  Since then, the angel of generosity has drawn her on from one self-denying deed to another, until he has possessed her utterly.  Her self-sacrifice was completed some weeks ago.  I will tell you how,—­for her light shall not be hidden under a bushel.

When I arrived at this, her little cottage home, after the accident, it was found impossible to get me up stairs.  So I have since occupied the parlor as my sick-room,—­having converted a large airy china-closet into a recess for a bed, and banished the dishes to the kitchen dresser.  During the day I occupy a soft hair-cloth-covered couch, and from it I can command, not a view, but a hearing, of the two porches, the hall, and the garden.

The day after my return was a soft, warm day; and though it was in February, the windows were all open.  I heard a light carriage drive up to the front door, and supposing it to be the doctor, I awaited his entrance with impatience.  After some time I discovered that he was with Kate in the garden, and I could hear their voices.  I listened with all my ears, that I might steal his true opinion of myself; for I concluded that Kate was having a private consultation, and arranging plans by which I was to be bolstered up with prepared accounts, and not told the plain facts of the case.  I had before suspected that they did not tell me the worst.  I could just catch my name now and then, but no more; and I wished heartily that they were a little nearer the windows.  They must be, I thought, quite at the bottom of the garden.  Suddenly I perceived that the voice addressing my sister was one of impassioned persuasion, and I heard the words, “Be calm and reasonable,”—­“Not forever.”  Then Kate said, with a burst of sobs, “Only in heaven.”

“It is all over with me, then,” I thought, aghast.  But having settled it, after a struggle, to be the best thing both for me and Kate, I began to listen again.  They were quite silent for some moments.  Then I heard sounds which surprised me,—­low, loving tones,—­and I desperately wrenched myself upon my elbows to look out.  The agony of such effort was more tolerable than the agony of suspense.  They were not far off, as I supposed, but close under the window, standing in the little box-tree arbor, screened from all eyes but mine; and no doubt Kate believed herself safe enough from these, as I had never been capable of such exertion since the accident.  Their low tones had deceived me as to their distance.

I was mistaken in another respect.  It was not the doctor with Kate, but a fine-looking man, whose emotion declared him her lover.  His arm held her, and hers rested upon his shoulder, as she looked up at him and spoke earnestly.  His face expressed the greatest alarm and grief.  I do not know where she found the resolution, while looking upon it, to do what she did; for, Mary,—­I can hardly bear to write it,—­I heard her forever renounce her love and happiness for my sake.