Ellen had declared that she should not like Mrs. Davis at all; but in vain she tried to nourish her prejudices against the kind and gentle hand that ministered to her wants, and the mild voice that spoke only of sympathy and interest, and at last ceased to expect the severity and lecturing which she had persisted in associating with the religion of the Christian widow. She did not know that the weapons of Christian love become polished by constant use, and that the mellowing influence of its principles softens down the roughness or the severity which sometimes tinges the efforts or the judgment of zealous spiritual youth. But, to the deep regret of her kind friends, she studiously evaded every attempt to lead her mind to any serious thought, and employed Fanny Ashton to retail to her the news of the town, and to supply her with frivolous novels, with which she beguiled her time when able to read. After recovering in some degree from the severer symptoms of her illness, it became evident that no further progress was made, and Ellen grew impatient of her incessant cough, her restless nights, and continued weakness; and at last her medical attendant intimated to Mrs. Davis, that his irritable patient was probably far gone in rapid decline. It was a severe shock to the affectionate sister, whose spiritual life and growth in grace and knowledge had only refined her love for this nearest earthly relative; but to break the intelligence to the invalid herself, became a source of the deepest and most painful anxiety. Fanny Ashton had begged Ellen to be prepared for a treat her brother intended to give them, at a beautiful spot a few miles up the river. He had obtained the loan of a pretty little sailing-bunt, manageable either with canvas or oar, and the first fine Sunday was appointed for the excursion. Fanny promised that instead of taking refreshment out of doors, it should be prepared for them at the small inn, kept for the accommodation of parties of pleasure, and that they should return home before sunset. The day arrived, and Ellen attempted to dress for the excursion, notwithstanding Jane's assurances that her strength was unequal to the effort. She insisted on trying, and protested that the air would revive and refresh her. She looked up with envy into the healthy countenance of her sister, who stood before her ready dressed for church, and whose serenity was clouded only by anxiety for her. Poor Ellen tried her shawl, and declared it was too heavy, she could not wear it; her bonnet hurt her head, everything went wrong, her hands trembled with weakness and excitement; and at last, throwing aside her preparations, she sank down upon her bed and burst into tears. "You are right, Jane," she sobbed, "I am not strong enough yet; you must call and tell them I cannot go to-day." Jane turned tearfully away from the thin pale form of the lately blooming girl, and went to do her bidding.