Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead,
and stole quietly out of the room to her own little bed.


CHAPTER II.

Gives sorrow to the winds.


Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she
slept late on the following morning. The great dressing-bell
waked her. She started up with a confused notion that
something was the matter: there was a weight on her heart that
was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring it all
back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding
helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control
the evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still,
and she was careful to allow no sound to escape her that could
reach the ears of her mother, who slept in the next room. Her
resolve was firm to grieve her no more with useless
expressions of sorrow — to keep it to herself as much as
possible. But this very thought, that she must keep it to
herself, gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the
convulsive clasp of her little arms round the pillow plainly
showed that it needed none.

The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she
must not be too late down stairs, or her mother might inquire
and find out the reason. "I will _not_ trouble mother — I will