"Well, I'll try," said Elsie, resignedly. "I wish you'd sit down and have a cup; perhaps I could eat then."
"Not now," replied Elizabeth.
The very sight of food was loathsome to her. She had hardly touched a morsel for two days.
After a good deal more hesitation, Elsie attacked the paté, and the jelly, and the pickles, and the custard-cake, and some crisp little wafers, and, finally, made an excellent meal; all the while declaring that she could not eat, that every mouthful choked her, that she believed she was dying. To all these complaints Elizabeth paid no more attention than she did to the meal that sensitive young creature was making.
Elsie went back to her sofa, feeling somewhat comforted, and prepared to take a brighter view of things. It appeared possible now for her to live an hour or two longer—a little while before she had declared that her death might be expected any moment.
"Do come and sit down, Bessie," she said, as Elizabeth entered, for about the hundredth time. "I'll give you the sofa; you must be tired out."
"No; I am not tired."
"But I am sure you have been for three hours march—march—march! Do sit down."
Elizabeth only turned away in silence, but Elsie felt so much relieved after her creature comforts, that she could not forbear attempting to inspire her sister with a little of the hope which had begun to spring up in her own narrow heart.
"Oh, Bessie," she cried, "I feel as if this would get over somehow, I do indeed."