When the conversation turned to another theme, I ventured to look at Emily. To my astonishment, she appeared to be wholly engrossed in a new book, she had taken from the table; but on looking a moment I perceived a deadly pallor about her mouth; and suddenly remembered that we were making a very long call upon persons just returned.
When we were at home, I merely ran to take a peep into the nursery, and finding all quiet, I begged Frank to excuse me for a few moments.
"Where is Emily?" I asked of mother.
"She went to her room to lay aside her bonnet."
I followed, and found the poor girl in the very abandonment of grief. She had tossed her bonnet into a chair, and was kneeling by the bed, with her arms thrown over her head, which was buried in the pillow.
I knelt by her side, putting my arms around her. "Dear sister," I said, "don't weep so. Do let me comfort you." But I stopped; what could I say?
After a few moments, she arose and sat by me. "Oh, Emily!" I said, "if you look so, you will break my heart."
"I believe," she replied in a mournful tone, putting her hand to her side, "that mine is broken. I thought I had schooled myself to hear this. I ought to have expected it; but oh! I have deceived myself."
I was never more embarrassed for words to express sympathy, and was awkwardly silent.