“Dolly,” she said, “you must not, you must not, indeed. You will die, you can't bear it.” “No,” she wailed, “I can't bear it,--that is what it is. I can't bear it. It is too hard to bear. But there is no one to help me,--God won't. He does not care for us, or He would have given us just one little crumb out of all He has to give. What can a poor helpless girl be to Him? He is too high and great to care for our poor little powerless griefs. Oh, how wicked I am!” in a fresh burst. “See how I rebel at the first real blow. It is because I am so wicked, perhaps, that all has been taken from me,--all I had in the world. It is because I loved Grif best. I have read in books that it was always so. Oh, why is it? I can't understand it. It seems cruel,--yes, it does seem cruel,--as cruel as death, to give him to me only that I might suffer when he was taken away. Oh, Grif, my darling! Grif, my love, my dear!” This over again and again, with wild, heart-broken weeping, until she was so worn out that she could cry no more, and lay upon Aimée's arm upon the cushion, white and exhausted, with heavy purple rings about her wearied, sunken eyes. It was not until then that Aimée heard the whole truth. She had only been able to guess at it before, and now, hearing the particulars, she could not help fearing the worst. It was just as she had feared it would be; another blow had come upon him at the very time when he was least able to bear it, and it had been too much for him. But she could not reveal her forebodings to Dolly. She must comfort her and persuade her to hope for the best. “You must go to bed, Dolly,” she said, “and try to sleep, and in the morning everything will look different. He may come, you know,--it would be just like him to come before breakfast. But if he does not come--suppose,” hesitatingly,--“suppose I was to write to him, or--suppose you were to?” She was half afraid that pride would rise against this plan, but she was mistaken. Seven years of love had mastered pride. Somehow or other, pride had never seemed to come between them in their little quarrels, each had always been too passionately eager to concede, and too sure of being met with tenderest penitence. Dolly had always known too confidently that her first relenting word would touch Grifs heart, and Grif had always been sure that his first half-softened reproach would bring the girl to his arms in an impetuous burst of loving repentance. No, it was scarcely likely that other people's scruples would keep them apart. So Dolly caught at the proposal almost eagerly.