"Where will he preach in Brompton, Julia? Is it anything of an extraordinary occasion?"
"No. I don't know. O, he will be in the—I don't know! You know what
Mr. Rhys is. He is something—he isn't like what we are."
"Now if I go to the Methodist Chapel at Brompton," thought Eleanor, "it will raise a storm that will either break me on the rocks, or land me on shore. I will do it. This is my very last chance."
She sat before the fire, pondering over her arrangements. Julia nestled up beside her, affectionate but mute, and laid her head caressingly against her sister's arm. Eleanor felt the action, though she took no notice of it. Both remained still for some little time.
"What would you like, Julia?" her sister began slowly. "What shall I do to please you, before I leave home? What would you choose I should give you?"
"Give me? Are you going to give me anything?"
"I would like to please you before I go away—if I knew how. Do you know how I can?"
"O Eleanor! Mr. Rhys wants something very much—If I could give it to him!—"
"What is it?"
"He has nothing to write on—nothing but an old portfolio; and that don't keep his pens and ink; and for travelling, you know, when he goes away, if he had a writing case like yours—wouldn't it be nice? O Eleanor, I thought of that the other day, but I had no money. What do you think?"