"Suppose Ellie," she, said at length, "that you and I were
taking a journey together — a troublesome, dangerous journey —
and that _I_ had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it;
— would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for
the rest of the way?"
"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a
kind of maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going,
Alice?"
"I think I am going home, Ellie — before you."
"Home?" said Ellen.
"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.
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