"I feel very sorry for you; you suffer so, Mrs. Clayton," I had said, as
I drew a chair beside her bed.
"And I for you, Miss Monfort; our fate seems equally hard, but we must
bear it;" and she groaned heavily and closed her eyes, evidently in
great pain.
"I have come to that conclusion, also, after a bitter struggle; physical
pain is not so easily borne, however; the body has little philosophy."
"I thought all this was over," she rejoined, abstractedly, "when my
hands were drawn as you see them by neuralgia ten years since. But I did
not suffer as much then, I believe, as I do now; besides, I was younger,
happier, better able to bear pain."
"Yes, that is true; the old should be at rest," at least my sense of
justice whispered this; then, after a pause: "Does my rubbing ease your
shoulder, Mrs. Clayton?"
"Somewhat--it is my head to-night, however, that troubles me chiefly. Be
good enough to press my temples. Ah, that is great relief! You are very
kind, Miss Monfort; yet, in reviewing the past, I hope you will not find
that I have been wanting to you in my turn. I trust we shall part in
peace and meet hereafter as friends. But you do not answer me."
"Pardon me, I was thinking. This is a crisis, you know--this night
decides my fate for good or ill, all rests with merciful God!"
"Yes, all--of ourselves we are helpless, of course.
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