“Self-interest, the very instinct of safety itself, weighed less with him than his old passion for gossip; and no sooner had he learned the important fact of who his neighbor was, than he set off straight to communicate the news to me. I must do him the justice to say, that when I proposed his hastening off to you with the tidings, the little man acceded with the utmost promptitude; but as his journey was to be performed on foot, and by certain mountain paths not always easily discovered in our misty climate, it is probable he could not reach this for some hours.” When Miss Daly concluded, Lady Eleanor and her daughter renewed their grateful acknowledgments for her thoughtful kindness. “These are sad themes by which to open our acquaintance,” said Lady Eleanor; “but it is among the prerogatives of friendship to share the pressure of misfortune, and Mr. Daly's sister can be no stranger to ours.” “Nor how undeserved they were,” added Miss Daly, gravely. “Nay, which of us can dare say so much?” interrupted Lady Eleanor; “we may well have forgotten ourselves in that long career of prosperity we enjoyed,--for ours was, indeed, a happy lot! I need not speak of my husband to one who knew him once so well. Generous, frank, and noble-hearted as he always was,-his only failing the excessive confidence that would go on believing in the honesty of others, from the prompting of a spirit that stooped to nothing low or unworthy,--he never knew suspicion.” “True,” echoed Miss Daly, “he never did suspect!” There was such a plaintive sadness in her voice that it drew Helen's eyes towards her; nor could all her efforts conceal a tear that trickled along her cheek. “And to what an alternative are we now reduced!” continued Lady Eleanor, who, with all the selfishness of sorrow, loved to linger on the painful theme,--“to rejoice at separation, and to feel relieved in thinking that he is gone to peril life itself rather than endure the lingering death of a broken heart!” “Yes, young lady,” said Miss Daly, turning towards Helen, “such are the recompenses of the most endearing affection, such the penalties of loving. Would you not almost say, 'It were better to be such as I am, unloved, uncared for, without one to share a joy or grief with?' I half think so myself,” added she, suddenly rising from her chair. “I can almost persuade myself that this load of life is easier borne when all its pressure is one's own.” “You are not about to leave us?” said Lady Eleanor, taking her hand affectionately. “Yes,” replied she, smiling sadly, “when my heart has disburdened itself of an immediate care, I become but sorry company, and sometimes think aloud. How fortunate I have no secrets!--Bring my pony to the door,” said she, as Tate answered the summons of the bell. “But wait at least for daylight,” said Helen, eagerly; “the storm is increasing, and the night is dark and starless. Remember what a road you 've come.”