s shop even at noonday, and Fern's
busy fingers, never willingly idle, worked by the light of a lamp long
before the muffin boy and milkman made their afternoon rounds in the
Elysian Fields.

Anything further removed from the typical idea of the Elysian Fields
could scarcely be imagined than on such an afternoon. It was
difficult, even for a light-hearted person, to maintain a uniform
cheerfulness where damp exuded everywhere, and the moist thick air
seemed to close round one in vaporous folds. Somewhere, no doubt, the
sun was shining, and might possibly shine again; but it was hard to
realize it--hard to maintain outward or inward geniality under such
depressing circumstances.

Fern had turned from the window with an involuntary shudder. Then she
lighted her lamp, stirred the fire, and sat down to her embroidery. As
her needle flew through the canvas her lips seemed to close with an
expression of patient sadness. There were sorrowful curves that no one
ever saw, for Fern kept all her thoughts to herself.

Never since the night when she had sobbed out her grief on her
mother's bosom, when the utterance of her girlish despair and longing
had filled that mother's heart with dismay, never since then had Fern
spoken of her trouble. "We will never talk of it again," she had said,
when the outburst was over; "it will do no good;" and her mother had
sorrowfully acquiesced.

Mrs. Trafford knew that only time, that beneficent healer, could
deaden her child's pain. Fern's gentle nature was capable of quiet but
intense feeling. Nea's faithful and ardent affections were reproduced
in her child. It was not only the loss of her girlish dreams over
which Fern mourned. Her woman's love had unconsciously rooted itself,
and could not be torn up without suffering. An unerring instinct told
her that Erle had not always been indifferent to her; that once, not
so very long ago, his friendship had been true and deep. Well, she had
forgiven his fickleness. No bitterness rankled in her heart against
him. He had been very kind to her; he would not wish her to be
unhappy.

But she was very brave. She would not look at the future. The cold
blankness, the narrow groove, would have chilled her heart. She only
took each day as it came, and tried to do her best with it.

With her usual unselfishness she determined that no one else should
suffer through her unhappiness. Her mother's brief hours of rest
should be unshadowed. It was a pale little