For the first time in her life Marie saw herself as she was, and at night, when the cousins were alone, and Ruth had been helping her to undress, the latter was startled into a belief that Marie was ill and delirious, for soon after she had dropped into her usual calm and peaceful sleep she was awakened by her cousin, looking strange and pale in her long white robe and with her black dishevelled hair about her shoulders.
“Are you ill, dear?” cried Ruth, starting up.
“Yes, so ill—so ill!” moaned Marie; and Ruth clasped her affectionately in her arms, to find her eyes wet with tears, and her hands like ice.
“What is it?” whispered Ruth; “let me call aunts.”
“No, no, let me stay here; lie down again, Ruthy: I want to talk to you.”
“But you are ill, dear!” cried Ruth.
“Only in mind, Ruthy. There, lie still, hold my hands and let me lay my head by yours; I want to talk.”
To Ruth’s surprise, Marie sank upon her knees by the bedside, clasped her in her arms, and laid her cheek upon the pillow.
“There,” continued Marie, “I can talk to you now,” and to the wondering girl’s astonishment she sobbed hysterically, asking for her sympathy and love. “For I have grown to hate myself, Ruth—to be ashamed of what I am. I’d give the world to be like you.”
“Oh, Marie, Marie,” sobbed Ruth, “pray, pray don’t speak of yourself like that! I have tried so hard to love Clotilde, but she has been cruel to me, I never could; but you—you have always been kind, and I do love you. You always took my part.”