“In heaven, we trust,” said Hilary, regaining her composure in a wonderful way; she pressed one hand upon her heart, made a strong physical effort to put away her grief, and then endeavored to draw Sybil toward her, hoping that the sight of her tears would touch Gwyneth’s heart. For Gwyneth sat still now, with wide open, tearless eyes, and parted lips, and cheeks as colorless as her neck; and her breath came slowly and with difficulty, and in deep, sobbing inspirations, and yet there was no tear; it was not like childish grief, it was the stillness of despair――her face might have belonged to a woman of thirty, so old it looked at that moment. Hilary felt helpless at first; then her whole heart was raised in prayer; words not her own came to her mind, to express her thoughts and wants, as she prayed that in all her troubles she might put her whole trust and confidence in that mercy which would not, could not fail. Sense and feeling returned to Gwyneth, and with it the self-will, the passionate independence of her character. Hilary’s arms had relaxed their hold: she seized the opportunity, escaped from the grasp, and springing from the bed, ran out of the room without so much as pausing to put her feet into her slippers. She crossed the broad passage, and rushing to the door of her mother’s chamber, tried violently to force it open. It was locked. Hilary had followed the willful child, and now laid her hand upon her arm. But Gwyneth screamed, bursting into a furious passion, and uttering cries which resounded through the otherwise silent house. It was a mixture of feelings, terror undefined, and therefore the more oppressive, grief, vexation, anger――she could not well have told what it was; but the utterance of these wild screams for a moment relieved her, and appeared to throw off the weight on her heart. In vain Hilary tried to soothe, to quiet, to command; her gentle voice was unheard, and Gwyneth, clinging to the handle of the door, and hiding her face on her arms, continued to scream with increasing energy. The old nurse appeared, and tried what she could do; but interjectory addresses, supplications, and entreaties, were unnoticed, and force made matters worse; when suddenly the door unclosed from the inside, and Gwyneth was only saved from falling on the floor by being caught in her father’s arms. The screams stopped instantly; she gave one glance at his pale, sad face, then hid her own upon his shoulder, and indulged in a copious and passionate burst of tears. He held her quietly and gravely, without a word. Hilary stood with the feelings of a culprit; it seemed to her as if in her very first endeavor, she had failed entirely of all she ought to have done; she blamed herself for her sister’s willfulness, and changing color and trembling, waited for what might follow. By degrees Gwyneth’s sobs subsided, and she lay quiet in her father’s arms.