The traitress kissed her cheek, and taking one of the little hands in hers, told her how truly she had loved Dr. Lacey, and how she had struggled against it when she saw that he loved another.  “I have,” said she, “lain awake many a night, and while you slept sweetly, dreaming, perhaps, of your lover, I have wept bitter tears because I must go alone through the cold world, unloved and uncared for.  And forgive me, Fanny, but sometimes I have felt angered at you, because you seemed to steal everybody’s love from me.  Our old father never speaks to me with the same affection which marks his manner when addressing you.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Fanny.  “I wish he would not do so, but Dr. Lacey—­Dr. Lacey—­I never thought you wanted him to love you; if I had—­”

“What would you have done?” asked Julia, with noticeable eagerness.

The voice was mournfully low which replied, “I would have given him up for you.  I could not have married one whom my sister loved.”  And then she suddenly added, “It seems doubtful whether he marries that young lady.  If anything should happen to prevent it, he may yet make you his wife.”

“And you, what would you do?” asked Julia.

“Oh, it is impossible for me to marry him now,” said Fanny.  “But if you were happy with him, I would try to be happy, too.”

“God bless you, sweet sister,” said Julia; “but it will never be.”

Fanny did not reply, and after a moment’s silence Julia said, “Sister, if I were you I would keep all this a secret, and even if I were unhappy, I would try to assume a forced cheerfulness, for fear people would suspect the truth, and call me lovesick.”

Fanny did not reply to this either.  She was trying to still the painful throbs of her aching heart.  Through all the long, weary hours of that night she was awake.  Sometimes she would watch the myriad host of stars, as they kept on their unwearied course through the clear, blue sky, and would wonder if there was room beyond them for one so unhappy as she was, and would muse on the past days of happiness now forever gone, and although a choking sensation was in her throat, not a tear moistened her cheek.  “I shall never weep again,” thought she, “and why should I?  The world will not know what I suffer.  I will be as gay and merry as ever.”  And a fearful laugh rang through the room as she said, “Yes, how gayly I’ll dance at the wedding.  I’ll hold my heart so fast that none shall ever know in how many pieces it is broken.”

Thus she talked on.  Delirium was stealing over her, and when morning broke, the rapid moving of her bright eye, and the crimson spot which burned on either cheek, showed that brain fever was doing its work.