Too carelessly instructed as she had been, in the forms, and almost wholly deficient in the spirit, of the religion she professed, she knew of no balm that could heal a wound of such bitterness--she saw no light that could have guided her to comfort. Highly as she prized youth and its enjoyments, its hopes, and its ties, much as she sparkled in company, and revelled in the admiration she excited, so much did she feel the reverse to be dark and hard to bear. She pictured Amy passing, in one five minutes, from her joyous youthfulness, with its light laugh, and bounding glee, to the trials of sickness which she might never more escape; probably, too, the highly intellectual child becoming only the feeble-minded woman, weakened by disease and suffering, and cut off from all those endearing ties so prized by a woman's heart. As these thoughts passed slowly, and impressively before her--she covered her face with her hands, and wept long and bitterly. CHAPTER XI. Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, For that sweet odour which doth in it live. SHAKSPEARE'S SONNET. How awful is the feeling with which morning breaks in a house where sudden grief and desolation has been wrought. Like Adam and Eve in the garden, we shrink from each other, as if we feared to read our own feelings in the faces of others, whose sufferings only embitter our own. The stillness of the past night broken by household sounds usually so familiar as to attract no attention, recall the mind to the fact that another day has opened on our life, showing more clearly the sorrow of the night before. Poor Amy! Mabel's love had thrown a kind of halo round the orphan child, and those who did not love her for her own, loved her for Mabel's sake. Old John went heavily to his work, to move the benches and other signs of the last evening's simple pleasure. "Miss Mabel shall not see them again," he said to himself; "I cannot give her much comfort--but I may spare her a little pain." Mr. Ware and his sister had gone home, after affording all the comfort and assistance in their power. Mrs. Lesly had been persuaded to lie down, for, terrified and ill, she needed repose, and Mabel, in grief, as in gladness, always took the lead. Lucy, exhausted and spiritless, too weary to get up, and too irresolute to undress, had thrown herself upon her bed, and fallen asleep. When she again opened her eyes, the noon-day light was streaming in upon her bed, and, to her great surprise, Mabel was standing by her; she was pale as the dead, and her countenance gave evidence of the agony of the last few hours--but there was a pale light in her eyes, and a still repose about her, that seemed to hallow the grief they concealed.