and crying out:

"He has ceased to love me--let me die!"

But the time came when the fierce fever burned itself out, and Dora lay
weak and helpless as a little child. She recovered slowly, but she was
never the same again. Her youth, hope, love, and happiness were all
dead. No smile or dimple, no pretty blush, came to the changed face;
the old coy beauty was all gone.

Calm and quiet, with deep, earnest eyes, and lips that seldom smiled,
Dora seemed to have found another self. Even with her children the sad
restraint never wore off nor grew less. If they wanted to play, they
sought the farmer in the fields, the good-natured nurse, or the
indulgent grandmamma--never the sad, pale mother. If they were in
trouble then they sought her.

Dora asked for work. She would have been dairy maid, house maid, or
anything else, but her father said "No." A pretty little room was
given to her, with woodbines and roses peeping in at the window. Here
for long hours every day, while the children played in the meadows, she
sat and sewed. There, too, Dora, for the first time, learned what
Ronald, far away in sunny Italy, failed to teach her--how to think and
read. Big boxes of books came from the town of Shorebeach. Stephen
Thorne spared no trouble or expense in pleasing his daughter. Dora
wondered that she had never cared for books, now that deeper and more
solemn thoughts came to her. The pale face took a new beauty; no one
could have believed that the thoughtful woman with the sweet voice and
refined accent was the daughter of the blunt farmer Thorne and his
homely wife.

A few weeks passed, and but for the little ones Dora would have
believed the whole to have been but a long, dark dream. She would not
think of Ronald; she would not remember his love, his sacrifices for
her; she thought only of her wrongs and his cruel words.

The children grew and throve. Dora had no care at present as to their
education. From her they learned good English, and between herself and
the faithful young nurse they could learn, she thought, tolerable
Italian. She would not think of a future that might take these beloved
children from her. She ignored Ronald's claim to them--they were hers.
He had tired of them when he tired of her. She never felt the days
monotonous in that quiet farm house, as others might have done. A dead
calm seemed to surround her; but it was destined soon to be broken.

Chapter XV

Ronald did not ret