som trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length—
"No, I'll not touch it—but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?"
"Yes," I observed, "about as starved and sackless as you—your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I dare say I shall keep up with you."
"No," she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing, at intervals, to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
"Catherine, why are you crying, love?" I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. "You mustn't cry, because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse."
She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.
"Oh, it will be something worse," she said.
I 3
