"I am afraid I must, my dear child."

"Not, and leave _me_, mother?"

The imploring look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow
with which Ellen uttered these words, took from her mother all
power of replying. It was not necessary; her little daughter
understood only too well the silent answer of her eye. With a
wild cry she flung her arms round her mother, and hiding her
face in her lap, gave way to a violent burst of grief, that
seemed for a few moments as if it would rend soul and body in
twain. For her passions were by nature very strong, and by
education very imperfectly controlled; and time, "that rider
that breaks youth," had not as yet tried his hand upon her.
And Mrs. Montgomery, in spite of the fortitude and calmness to
which she had steeled herself, bent down over her, and folding
her arms about her, yielded to sorrow deeper still, and for a
little while scarcely less violent in its expression than
Ellen's own.

Alas! she had too good reason. She knew that the chance of her
ever returning to shield the little creature who was nearest
her heart from the future evils and snares of life was very,
very small. She had at first absolutely refused to leave
Ellen, when her husband proposed it; declaring that she would
rather stay with her and die than take the chance of recovery
at such a cost. But her physician assured her she could not
live long without a change of climate; Captain Montgomery
urged that it was better to submit to a temporary separation,
than to cling obstinately to her child for a few months, and