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 the close of the first stanza she stopped; she could get no further: her full heart flowed over.

"You are weeping at the pathos of the air: come here, and I will comfort you," said Caroline, in a pitying accent. Mrs. Pryor came: she sat down on the edge of her patient's bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.

"You often soothe me, let me soothe you," murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. "I hope," she added, "it is not for me you weep?"

No answer followed.

"Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel very ill—only weak."

"But your mind, Caroline: your mind is crushed; your heart is almost broken: you have been so neglected, so repulsed, left so desolate."

"I beliefbelieve [sic] grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment. I sometimes think, if an abundant gush of happiness came on me, I could revive yet."

"Do you wish to live?"

"I have no object in life."

"You love me, Caroline?"

"Very much,—very truly,—inexpressibly sometimes: just now, I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart."

"I will return directly, dear," remarked Mrs. Pryor, as she laid Caroline down.

Quitting her, she glided to the door, softly turned the key in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came back. She bent over her. She threw back