to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.
“Rose, my dear!” said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts.
“Rose, my love!” cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. “What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?”
“Nothing, aunt; nothing,” replied the young lady. “I don’t know what it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—”
“Not ill, my love?” interposed Mrs. Maylie.
“No, no! Oh, not ill!” replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; “I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!”
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress.
“My child!” said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, “I never saw you so before.”
“I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,” rejoined Rose; “but indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt.”
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her