She did not look patient, she did not look resigned; she _could_ not look cheerful exactly. She looked earnest, composed, busy, and exceedingly kind. She had not, it would seem, thought enough of self in the midst of her privations, to require the exercise of the virtues of patience and resignation; she was so occupied with the sufferings of others that she never seemed to think of her own. She was naturally of the most cheerful, hopeful temper in the world--those people without selfishness usually are. And, though sorrow had a little lowered the tone of her spirits to composure, and work and disappointment had faded the bright colors of hope; still hope was not entirely gone, nor cheerfulness exhausted. But, the predominant expression of every word, and look, and tone, and gesture, was kindness--inexhaustible kindness. I said she lifted up her head from time to time, as a sigh proceeded from the bed, and its suffering inhabitant tossed and tossed: and at last she broke silence and said, "Poor Myra, can't you get to sleep?" "It is so fearfully cold," was the reply; "and when _will_ you have done, and come to bed?" "One quarter of an hour more, and I shall have finished it. Poor Myra, you are so nervous, you never can get to sleep till all is shut up--but have patience, dear, one little quarter of an hour, and then I will throw my clothes over your feet, and I hope you will be a little warmer." A sigh for all answer; and then the _true_ heroine--for she was extremely beautiful, or rather had been, poor thing, for she was too wan and wasted to be beautiful now--lifted up her head, from which fell a profusion of the fairest hair in the world, and leaning her head upon her arm, watched in a sort of impatient patience the progress of the indefatigable needle-woman. "One o'clock striking, and you hav'n't done yet, Lettice? how slowly you _do_ get on." "I can not work fast and neatly too, dear Myra. I can not get through as some do--I wish I could. But my hands are not so delicate and nimble as yours, such swelled clumsy things," she said, laughing a little, as she looked at them--swelled, indeed, and all mottled over with the cold! "I can not get over the ground nimbly and well at the same time. You are a fine race-horse, I am a poor little drudging pony--but I will make as much haste as I possibly can." Myra once more uttered an impatient, fretful sigh, and sank down again, saying, "My feet are so dreadfully cold!" "Take this bit of flannel then, and let me wrap them up." "Nay, but you will want it." "Oh, I have only five minutes more to stay, and I can wrap the carpet round my feet."