Ah! reader, there are griefs that tell, rending the heart as an earthquake would rend the earth, and all that can be done is to sit down under them and ask of heaven strength to bear--to bear as best we can, until time shall shed a few drops of healing balm from its wings. On the last night that Charles had seen her, Janey’s eyes and brow were heavy, she had cried much during the day and supposed the pain to have arisen from that circumstance. She had given this explanation to Charles Taylor. Neither he nor she had a thought that it could come from any other source. More than a month ago Mary Ann had taken the fever; fears of it for Janey had passed away, and yet those dull eyes, that hot head, that heavy weight of pain, were only the symptoms of the sickness approaching. A night of tossing and turning, in fits of disturbed sleep, of terrifying dreams, and Janey awoke to the conviction that the fever was upon her. About the time she generally arose she rang the bell for Eliza. “I do not feel well,” she said, “as soon as mamma is up will you ask her to come to me? do not disturb her before.” Eliza obeyed her orders. But her mother, tired and worn out with her attendance upon Mary Ann, with whom she had been up half the night, did not rise until between nine and ten. The maid went to her then and delivered the message. “In bed, still; Miss Janey in bed, still?” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster. She spoke in much anger, for Janey had to be up in time, attending to Mary Ann, it was required of her to be so. Throwing on a dressing-gown, Mrs. Brewster proceeded to Janey’s room, and there she broke into a storm of reproach and anger, never waiting to ascertain what might be the matter with Janey, anything or nothing. “Ten o’clock, and that poor child to have been till now with nobody to go near her but a servant!” she reiterated, “you have no feeling, Janey!” Janey drew the covering from her flushed face and turned her glittering eyes, dull last night, shining with the fever now upon her, upon her mother. “Oh, mamma, I am sick; indeed I am. I can hardly lift my head for the pain; feel how hot it is. I did not think I ought to get up.” “What is the matter with you?” sharply inquired Mrs. Brewster. “I cannot tell,” answered Janey, “I know that I feel sick all over. I feel, mamma, as if I could not get up.” “Very well; there’s that dear, suffering angel lying alone, and you can think of yourself before her; if you choose to lie in bed you must, but you will reproach yourself for your selfishness when she is gone; another twenty-four hours and she may not be with us; do as you think best.” Janey burst into tears and caught hold of her mother’s robe as she was turning away. “Mamma, do not be angry with me; I hope I am not selfish, mamma,” and her voice sank to a whisper, “I have been thinking that it may be the fever.”