But Ellen was
wrought up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears
brought no relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In
the extremity of her distress and despair, and in that lonely
place, out of hearing of every one, she sobbed aloud, and even
screamed, for almost the first time in her life; and these
fits of violence were succeeded by exhaustion, during which
she ceased to shed tears, and lay quite still, drawing only
long, sobbing sighs, now and then.
How long Ellen had lain there, or how long this would have
gone on before her strength had been quite worn out, no one
can tell. In one of these fits of forced quiet, when she lay
as still as the rocks around her, she heard a voice close by
say, "What is the matter, my child?"
The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the
tempest in Ellen's mind. She got up hastily, and, brushing
away the tears from her dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady
standing there, and a face, whose sweetness well matched the
voice, looking upon her with grave concern. She stood
motionless and silent.
"What is the matter, my dear?"
The tone found Ellen's heart, and brought the water to her
eyes again, though with a difference. She covered her face
with her hands. But gentle hands were placed upon hers, and
drew them away; and the lady, sitting down on Ellen's stone,
took her in her arms; and Ellen hid her face in the bosom of a
better friend than the cold earth had been like to prove her.
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