But all seemed in vain; the troubled spirit refused to be comforted, for it knew its desolation, and that even if Lionel Redgrave were found to be living and well, there was no hope, no rest for her.
“Try not to cry so much, dear,” said Patty, simply. “It will make your head ache.”
“Better the head than the heart, Patty,” cried Janet, passionately. “Oh, I wish I was dead—I wish I was dead!”
“Hush, hush, dear! how can you?” whispered Patty. “Try, do try to keep it back.”
“Yes, yes,” said Janet, with a sigh that was more like a groan. “I will be patient, I will try and bear it, and you will try and pray with me, Patty, that he may be safe and well, and restored to the good old man, his father. Oh! how I longed to be near him—to go on my knees by his side; and when he asked me to come, it was almost more than I could bear. Something seemed to be drawing me to him, and again something was dragging me back. Patty, how do people feel when they go mad? Is it anything like what I have been suffering these last few days?”
“Did you not promise me that you would be calm?” whispered Patty, soothingly.
“Yes, yes, I know I did, and I am trying; but you will pray too, Patty dear, will you not?”
“Yes,” answered Patty, as she clung close to the poor suffering girl. “I will pray too.”
“But he believed you, Patty,” Janet exclaimed, suddenly; “and came to your side then, like a lover should. I was in trouble, but all the same I could see his proud look. He loves you—he loves you!”
“Oh! hush, Janet, hush!” cried Patty, wearily. “Am I not unhappy enough? It can never—never be! And besides,” she added, proudly, as her pale cheeks flamed up, “does he not love somebody else?”