er burden very calmly,
and fulfilled the sacrifice without any outward mark of martyrdom.

She went about the work of the farm-house with a resolute active air that
puzzled Mrs. Tadman, who had fully expected the young wife would play the
fine lady, and leave all the drudgery of the household to her. But it
really seemed as if Ellen liked hard work. She went from one task to
another with an indefatigable industry, an energy that never gave way.
Only when the day's work in house and dairy was done did her depression
of spirits become visible. Then, indeed, when all was finished, and she
sat down, neatly dressed for the afternoon, in the parlour with Mrs.
Tadman, it was easy to see how utterly hopeless and miserable this young
wife was. The pale fixed face, the listless hands clasped loosely in her
lap, every attitude of the drooping figure, betrayed the joyless spirit,
the broken heart. At these times, when they were alone together, waiting
Stephen Whitelaw's coming home to tea, Mrs. Tadman's heart, not entirely
hardened by long years of self-seeking, yearned towards her kinsman's
wife; and the secret animosity with which she had at first regarded her
changed to a silent pity, a compassion she would fain have expressed in
some form or other, had she dared.

But she could not venture to do this. There was something in the girl, a
quiet air of pride and self-reliance, in spite of her too evident
sadness, which forbade any overt expression of sympathy; so Mrs. Tadman
could only show her friendly feelings in a very small way, by being
especially active and brisk in assisting all the household labours of the
new mistress of Wyncomb, and by endeavouring to cheer her with such petty
gossip as she was able to pick up. Ellen felt that the woman was kindly
disposed towards her, and she was not ungrateful; but her heart was quite
shut against sympathy, her sorrow was too profound to be lightened ever
so little by human friendship. It was a dull despair, a settled
conviction that for her life could never have again a single charm, that
her days must go on in their slow progress to the grave unlightened by
one ray of sunshine, her burden carried to the end of the dreary journey
unrelieved by one hour of respite. It seemed very hard for one so young,
not quite three-and-twenty yet, to turn her back upon every hope of
happiness, to be obliged to say to herself, "For me the sun can never
shine again, the world I live in can never more s