I do trust it.
I do believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I
believe it will be well for me when I die — well for you, my
dear, dear Ellie — well even for my father —"
She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But
oh! Ellen knew what it would have been; and it suddenly
startled into life all the load of grief that had been
settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts had not looked
that way before; now, when they did, this new vision of misery
was too much to bear. Quite unable to contain herself, and
unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help, with a
smothered burst of feeling she sprang away, out of the door,
into the woods, where she would be unseen and unheard.
And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost
thought she should die. Her grief had not now, indeed, the
goading sting of impatience: she knew the hand that gave the
blow, and did not raise her own against it; she believed, too,
what Alice had been saying, and the sense of it was, in a
manner, present with her in her darkest time. But her spirit
died within her; she bowed her head as if she were never to
lift it up again; and she was ready to say with Job, "What
good is my life to me?"
It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she
came in again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt's.
She would have done it hurriedly and turned away; but Alice
held her, and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-begone
little face, then clasped her close, and kissed her again and
again.
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