It was not fainting, however; Ellen's senses
soon came back; but she seemed like a person stunned with a
great blow, and Alice wished grief had had any other effect
upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung over her;
tears did not come; the violent strain of every nerve and
feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep
long, heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to
have no power to do anything else.
Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days
lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from
Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the
parsonage — one on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own —
to ask about her; and she dreaded that a violent fit of
illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She
was mistaken, however. Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind
and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon
her. As the first stupor wore off, there were, indeed, more
lively signs of grief; she would weep till she wept her eyes
out, and that often, but it was very quietly; no passionate
sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too strong hold to
be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it.
Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let
her go back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise;
yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there.
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