As these thoughts passed through her mind, Phebe Gray gathered up the bed-drapery, and lying down by her sister, passing an arm caressingly over her waist, laid her blushing cheek against the now pallid face which rested on the pillow. She felt that tears were upon it, and that the snowy linen under her head was wet as if Malina had cried herself to sleep. “Malina, wake up a minute, I have something to tell you,” murmured the young girl, in a low, half timid whisper. The moonbeams lay full upon the bed, and Phebe Gray was looking earnestly in the face of the beautiful sleeper. She could see the silken lashes quivering on her cheek, and a tremulous motion of the lips, nay, it seemed to her as if a single tear broke through the lashes and rolled over the pale cheek, and she was certain that something like a faint shudder crept through the form which was half circled by her arm. But Malina gave no answer, and the gentle questioner was too sensitive for another effort to win attention. She quietly laid her head on the pillow and sunk to sleep, but not to indulge in the sweet, unbroken dream of happiness which had shed roses over her couch so many nights. There was sadness at heart, a presentiment of coming ill, and a solicitude regarding her sister which kept her anxious and rendered her slumber broken and unrefreshing. About midnight, when the stillness of her chamber rendered every sound more than usually audible, she was disturbed by the broken and half stifled sobs which arose from her sister’s pillow. Again she stole her arm over the weeping girl, and questioned her regarding the source of her grief. Malina only turned her face away, and sobbed more bitterly than before. “Why will you not speak to me, Malina? what has come between us of late?—speak to me, sister—you are in sorrow, and I have—oh how much—cause for joy! yet we have all at once learned to conceal thoughts from one another. Tell me what troubles you—for I cannot be entirely happy while you are ill and so sad.” Malina redoubled her sobs, but amid the tumult of her grief she murmured, “Tell me all, Phebe, all you feel, all you wish; but I have no secrets, no sorrow. There is a little pain in my side, sometimes, and that makes me low spirited. I have always been so healthy, you know, that a little illness frightens me. Do not mind me, but talk of yourself. You are happy, Phebe, _very_ happy! were not those your words? tell me all—I can be glad and rejoice in any thing that gives you pleasure—any thing on earth—if my heart were breaking. So let us talk it all over now, the room is so quiet and dark, and we shall neither of us get sleepy—do you think we shall, sister?—you may, but I have almost forgotten how to sleep,” and, as Malina ceased speaking, she stole an arm around her sister’s neck, and, choking back her sobs, composed herself to listen.