"Yes, home, I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank
God it is my home I am going to."
Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.
"It is your home, too, love, I trust, and believe," said Alice tenderly; "we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself; I only grieve to leave you alone and others but God knows best. We must both look to Him."
"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly; "what do you mean? what do you mean? I don't understand you what do you mean?"
"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"
"But, Alice! but Alice dear Alice! what makes you say so? is there anything the matter with you?"
"Do I look well, Ellie?"
With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in Alice's face for the tokens of what she wished and what she feared. It had once or twice lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding or walking or any other exertion; and it had struck her that the bright spots of colour in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now, as she recalled them, and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to her lips.
"My poor Ellie! my poor Ellie!" said Alice, pressing her little sister to her bosom "it must be! We must say 'the Lord's will be done;' we must not forget he does all things well."
But Ellen rallied; she raised her head again: she could not believe what Alice had told her. To her mind, it seemed an evil too great to happen; it could not be! Alice saw this in her look, and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. "It must be, Ellie," she repeated.