The torpor had succeeded to the violence of grief; nothing now seemed to interest her. All that constitutes youth had suddenly passed away: she looked forward to nothing, because it appeared to her experience, that to hope and to trust was to insure disappointment and deceit. Ethel actually shrank from the idea of happiness: she had been so happy once; and how dearly had that happiness avenged its brief and sweet presence! Gradually she had sunk into that worst state of misery, and one which in a woman it so frequently assumes; namely, a state of languid and listless dejection. Every thing was a trouble, and nothing a pleasure; while one day passed on into another—dull, monotonous, without an effort to rouse from her utter depression.
One evening she was startled from the gloomy reverie in which it had grown her habit to indulge during the family histories, which were perpetual subjects of her grandmother's discourse, by the announcement that a visitor was expected the following day:—"One, Ethel," said the old lady, with a very significant look,
