‘No, do not, Jenny, I beg. I know she thinks so herself, and grieves too much over it. No wonder she is vexed. All my faults have come upon her. You had better go down, Jane; Mrs. Burnet is always vexed if she does not see a good many of us, and I am sure I cannot go. Besides, Emily dislikes having that girl to entertain.’ ‘Lily, you are so very gentle and forgiving, that I wonder how any one can say what grieves you,’ said Jane, for once struck with admiration. She went, and Lily remained, weeping over the injustice which she had forgiven, and feeling as if, all the time, it was fair that the rule of ‘love’ should, as it were, recoil upon her. Her tears flowed fast, as she went over the long line of faults and follies which lay heavy on her conscience. And Emily against her! That sister who, from her infancy, had soothed her in every trouble, of whose sympathy she had always felt sure, whose gentleness had been her admiration in her days of sharp answers and violent temper, who had seemed her own beyond all the others; this wound from her gave Lily a bitter feeling of desertion and loneliness. It was like a completion of her punishment—the broken reed on which she leant had pierced her deeply. She was still sitting on the side of her bed, weeping, when a slight tap at the door made her start—a gentle tap, the sound of which she had learned to love in her illness. The next moment Alethea stood before her, with outstretched arms. This was a time to feel the value of such a friend, and every suspicion passing from her mind, she flew to Alethea, kissed her again and again, and laid her head on her shoulder. Her caress was returned with equal warmth. ‘But how is this?’ said Alethea, now perceiving that her face was pale, and marked by tears. ‘How is this, my dear Lily?’ ‘Oh, Alethea! I cannot tell you, but it is all misery. The full effect of my baneful principle has appeared!’ ‘Has anything happened?’ exclaimed Alethea. ‘No,’ said Lily. ‘There is nothing new, except the—Oh! I cannot tell you.’ ‘I wish I could do anything for you, my poor Lily,’ said Alethea. ‘You can look kind,’ said Lily, ‘and that is a great comfort. Oh! Alethea, it was very kind of you to come and speak to me. I shall do now—I can bear it all better. You have a comforting face and voice like nobody else. When did you come? Have you been in the drawing-room?’ ‘No,’ said Alethea. ‘I walked here with Marianne, and finding there were visitors in the drawing-room we went to Ada, and she told me where to find you. I had something to tell you—but perhaps you know already.’ The colour on her cheek recalled all Lily’s fears, and to hear the news from herself was an unexpected trial. She felt as if what she had said justified Emily’s reproach, and turning away her head, replied, ‘Yes, I know.’