in to remind them of every provoking admonition he had given on the
subject. And who does not know that these little trials of life are its
hardest trials? The mother did not attempt to say one word of comfort,
or hope, or excuse. She only took the child in her arms, and wept for
her. At this hour she would not wound her by even an angry word
concerning him.

"I loved him so much, _moeder_."

"Thou could not help it. Handsome, and gallant, and gay he was. I never
shall forget seeing thee dance with him."

"And he did love me. A woman knows when she is loved."

"Yes, I am sure he loved thee."

"He has gone? Really gone?"

"No doubt is there of it. Stay in thy room, and have thy grief out with
thyself."

"No; I will come to my work. Every day will now be the same. I shall
look no more for any joy; but my duty I will do."

They went downstairs together. The clean linen, the stockings that
required mending, lay upon the table. Katherine sat down to the task.
Resolutely, but almost unconsciously, she put her needle through and
through. Her suffering was pitiful; this little one, who a few months
ago would have wept for a cut finger, now silently battling with the
bitterest agony that can come to a loving woman,--the sense of cruel,
unexpected, unmerited desertion. At first Lysbet tried to talk to her;
but she soon saw that the effort to answer was beyond Katherine's
power, and conversation was abandoned. So for an hour, an hour of
speechless sorrow, they sat. The tick of the clock, the purr of the cat,
the snap of a breaking thread, alone relieved the tension of silence in
which this act of suffering was completed. Its atmosphere was becoming
intolerable, like that of a nightmare; and Lysbet was feeling that she
must speak and move, and so dissipate it, when there was a loud knock at
the front door.

Katherine trembled all over. "To-day I cannot bear it, mother. No one
can I see. I will go upstairs."

Ere the words were finished, Mrs. Gordon's voice was audible. She came
into the room laughing, with the smell of fresh violets and the feeling
of the brisk wind around her. "Dear madam," she cried, "I entreat you
for a favour. I am going to take the air this afternoon: be so good as
to let Katherine come with me. For I must tell you that the colonel has
orders for Boston, and I may see my charming friend no more after
to-day."

"Katherine, what say you? Will you go?"

"Please, _mijn moeder_."

"Make great hast