And yet she stood
silent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while--something
held her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, a
gush of holy feeling. It was pride. She could not bring herself to
speak words of penitence and humility. But she did not turn away
from the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, and
the tears rolled slowly down her face.
"Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!" said Christine,
tenderly approaching her. "I am your sister; if you have any sorrow,
why may I not sympathize with you? How can _you_ be sorrowful? you
never meet with neglect, and--" the young girl paused hastily, with
a suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she had
previously so carefully concealed under the mask of callous
indifference--she had shown that she felt keenly her own position,
and that of her sister as a favourite. Ann was proud of her
intellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond of
admiration. She knew that her sister was really as gifted as
herself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, when
her cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm. She had seen
her, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when _expression_ had
lit up her face with a positive beauty--when the soul, the life of
beauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill that
acknowledged its power.
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