“Do not say so,” said Anne. Her companion spoke with the utmost calmness—there was a blank composure about her, which told more powerfully even than her words, the death of hope.—”There can be no life, however sorrowful, that has not an aim—an expectation.”
“An aim?—ay, an aim! If you knew what you said you would know what a solemn and sacred thing it is that has stood in my path, these seventeen years, the ending of my travail—an expectation! What think you of looking forward all that time, as your one aim and expectation—almost, God help us, as your hope—for a thing which you knew would rend your very heart, and make your life a desert when it came—what think ye of that? There are more agonies in this world than men dream of in their philosophy.”
“Are we not friends?” said Anne. “Have we not an equal share in a great sorrow that is past—I trust and hope in a great joy that is to come? Will you not take my sympathy?—my assistance?”
Christian Lillie shrank, as Anne thought, from her offered hand.
“An equal share—an equal share. God keep you from that—but it becomes you well: turn round to the light, and let me see your face.”
She laid her hand on Anne’s shoulder, and, turning her round, gazed upon her earnestly.
“Like—and yet unlike,” she murmured. “You are the only child of your mother? she left none but you?”
“Except—”
“Hush, what would you say?” said Christian, hurriedly.—”And you would offer me sympathy and help? Alas! that I cannot take it at your, hands. You have opened a fountain in this withered heart, that I thought no hand in this world could touch but one. It is a good deed—you will get a blessing for it—now, fare you well.”
“Shall I not see you again?” said Anne.