"You are weeping at the pathos of the air. Come here, and I will comfort you," said Caroline, in a pitying accent. Mrs. Pryor came. She sat down on the edge of her patient's bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.
"You often soothe me; let me soothe you," murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. "I hope," she added, "it is not for me you weep?"
No answer followed.
"Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel _very_ ill--only weak."

"You are weeping at the sadness of the song. Come here, and I will comfort you," said Caroline, in a pitying accent. Mrs. Pryor sat on the edge of the bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.
"You often soothe me; let me soothe you," murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. "I hope it is not for me you weep? I do not feel very ill - only weak."
