"Thank you, uncle," was all her reply.

"What is the matter with you, my child?" I said, and drew a chair near
hers. She was half reclining, with a book lying upside down on her
knee.

"I would tell you at once, uncle, if I knew," she answered very
sweetly, but as sadly. I believe I am dying; but of what I have not
the smallest idea."

"Nonsense!" I said. "You're not dying."

"You need not think to comfort me that way, uncle; for I think I would
rather die than not."

"Is there anything you would like?"

"Nothing. There is nothing worth liking, but sleep."

"Don't you sleep at night?"

"Not well.--I will tell you all I know about it.--Some six weeks ago,
I woke suddenly one morning, very early--I think about three
o'clock--with an overpowering sense of blackness and misery.
Everything I thought of seemed to have a core of wretchedness in it. I
fought with the feeling as well as I could, and got to sleep again.
But the effect of it did not leave me next day. I said to myself:
'They say "morning thoughts are true." What if this should be the true
way of looking at things?' And everything became grey and dismal about