“Do you think I am very ill, Laura?” Annie asked; “so ill that I am at all likely to die?”
“No, darling; I hope—I trust not,” returned Laura earnestly; “but why do you ask, and in so strange a tone that one could almost fancy you wished that it might be so?”
“Because I do wish it,” was the sad rejoinder; “if I live I must be very unhappy—there is no help for it, and so I wish to die. Is that wrong? I am afraid it is.”
Laura paused ere she replied—
“I don’t think you are likely to die—grief kills very slowly. I am sure you need not die of grief, or seek to die to escape a life of unhappiness, if you would only be reasonable. I love you as I should have loved a sister, had I possessed one; my only desire is to render you happier; I am a woman, as yourself, and as little likely as you would be, were our situations reversed, to do or counsel anything which could wound your feelings or compromise your delicacy; and yet you lock your sorrow in your own breast, and refuse to give me sufficient insight into your heart to enable me to be of the slightest comfort or assistance to you. Is this wise or even kind?”
Such an appeal, coming at that particular moment, was irresistible. Annie threw her arms round her friend, hid her face on Laura’s shoulder, and sinking her voice almost to a whisper, inquired—
“What is it you wish to know?”
“You dislike Lord Bellefield, and are anxious not to marry him?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” was the unmistakable answer.
“You love——”