She shook her head.
"But, my father! what is to be done? Can any thing be done?"
"No, my love. I fear nothing can be done."
"He loves me!" said Ella, raising up her head again, her eyes beaming with a new hope. "I will try—I will venture. It is perhaps great presumption in a child; but my father loves me, and I love him...."
Again Clementina shook her head.
"You are so faint-hearted—you are so discouraging. You give up every thing without an attempt to save yourself or others. That is your way!" cried Ella, with her own impetuosity, and some of her old injustice. Then, seeing sorrow and pain working upon her sister's face as she spoke thus, she stopped herself, and cried—"Oh! I am a brute—worse than a brute—to say this. Dear Cle., forgive me; but don't, pray don't discourage me, when I want all my courage. I will go—I will go this moment, and speak to my father...."
Clementina pressed her sister's hand as she started up to go. She feared the effort would be vain,—vain as those she had herself made; yet there was no knowing. Ella was so beautiful, so correct, so eloquent, so prevailing!
She followed her with her eyes, to the door, with feelings of mingled hope and apprehension.
Down the splendid stairs, with their gilded balustrades, and carpets of the richest hue and texture, rushed the impetuous Ella. Through the hall—all marbles and guilding—and her hand was upon the lock of the library door. She was about to turn it, without reflection: but a sudden fear of intruding came over her—she paused and knocked.
"Who is there?" exclaimed an irritated voice from within; "go away—I can see no one just now."