In the still, wakeful hours of night, when the
only sound to be heard was the heavy breathing of her aunt
asleep on the floor by her side; and in the long, solitary
day, when the only variety to be looked for was Miss Fortune's
flitting in and out, and there came to be a sameness about
that — Ellen mourned her loss bitterly. Many and many were the
silent tears that rolled down and wet her pillow; many a long-
drawn sigh came from the very bottom of Ellen's heart: she was
too weak and subdued now for violent weeping. She wondered
sadly why Alice did not come to see her; it was another great
grief added to the former. She never chose, however, to
mention her name to her aunt. She kept her wonder and her
sorrow to herself — all the harder to bear for that. After two
weeks Ellen began to mend, and then she became exceedingly
weary of being alone and shut up to her room. It was a
pleasure to have her Bible and hymn-book lying upon the bed,
and a great comfort when she was able to look at a few words,
but that was not very often, and she longed to see somebody,
and hear something besides her aunt's dry questions and
answers.
One afternoon Ellen was sitting, alone as usual, bolstered up
in bed. Her little hymn-book was clasped in her hand; though
not equal to reading, she felt the touch of it a solace to
her. Half-dozing, half-waking, she had been perfectly quiet
for some time, when the sudden and not very gentle opening of
the room door caused her to start and open her eyes.
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