"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!"
"For heaven's sake, my dearest Laura," said Ellen, "endeavour to take comfort; surely she is better—she will recover!"
Laura only shook her head; and the nurse approaching, said, "Indeed, Madam, Miss Cecil will kill herself; she has not had her clothes off these two nights, nor has the slightest refreshment passed her lips this day."
"Oh! talk not to me of rest or food," cried Laura, "I can partake of neither."
Ellen most tenderly urged her to take something; but pressing her hands upon her heart, she replied, "Oh no, oh no—I could not; indeed I could not. Go," she added, "my dear friend—go, this is no place for you; nothing but the request of ——; nothing but her request should have induced me to send for you."
"But now I am here," said Ellen, "surely you will allow me to stay; I may be of use to you; of comfort to dear dear Juliet."
In vain she urged. Laura sacrificed all selfish considerations, and insisted on her returning home, promising to send to her should Juliet wish to see her again; and St. Aubyn, anxious for her, now sent to request his wife would come: she therefore embraced her friend, and looking once more on the departing saint, who now again lay heavily dozing, she lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, and, with another shower of tears, left the room.
St. Aubyn was rejoiced to find her disposed to accompany him home, though she complained bitterly that Laura would not let her stay.
"Laura," said he, "judges as she always does, wisely, and acts kindly: you could be of no real service, and your being here would be highly improper; you must not think of it."
Two days of the greatest anxiety now passed, and at the end of that time the fair and lovely Juliet breathed no more: her last moments were attended by consolation so powerful, and hopes so celestial, as might well have taught the worldly "how a Christian could die!"