mother's request, she never went near the spinnet; she nursed no flowers for her own room; and when she read, it was slowly; she could not keep her attention to the page. You gazed on her, and saw
"'Twas a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be!"
But the bloom and the gaiety had gone together: there was sweetness and endurance; but they are sad, when the only expression worn by youth.
She was just pausing for breath after a longer speech, even than usual, of the heroine's, when the door opened, and Madame Cecile, Lady Marchmont's maid, rushed into the room!
"Oh, my lady!" exclaimed she: "for pity's sake come to her, Miss Churchill!" and, sinking into a chair, gave way to a violent burst of hysterics.
It was long before Ethel's soothing or questions could extract any thing like an answer, till Mrs. Churchill took the matter into her
