be possible to her, she
would comply with these laws. She had convinced herself, forming her
judgment from every tone of his voice, from every glance of his eye,
from every word that fell from his lips, that this separation would
be expedient for him. And then, assuring herself that the task should
be hers, and not his, she had done it. She had done it, and, counting
up the cost afterwards, she had found herself to be broken in pieces.
That wholeness and roundness, in which she had rejoiced, had gone
from her altogether. She would try to persuade herself that she could
live as her aunt had lived, and yet be whole and round. She tried,
but knew that she failed. The life to which she had looked forward
had been the life of a married woman; and now, as that was taken from
her, she could be but a thing broken, a fragment of humanity, created
for use, but never to be used.

She bore all this well, for a while,--and indeed never ceased to bear
it well, to the eyes of those around her. When Parson John told her
of Walter's hunting, she laughed, and said that she hoped he would
distinguish himself. When her aunt on one occasion congratulated
her, telling her that she had done well and nobly, she bore the
congratulation with a smile and a kind word. But she thought about it
much, and within the chambers of her own bosom there were complaints
made that the play which had been played between him and her during
the last few months should for her have been such a very tragedy,
while for him the matter was no more than a melodrama, touched with
a pleasing melancholy. He had not been made a waif upon the waters
by the misfortune of a few weeks, by the error of a lawyer, by a
mistaken calculation,--not even by the crime of his father. His
manhood was, at any rate, perfect to him. Though he might be a poor
man, he was still a man with his hands free, and with something
before him which he could do. She understood, too, that the rough
work of his life would be such that it would rub away, perhaps too
quickly, the impression of his late love, and enable him hereafter
to love another. But for her,--for her there could be nothing but
memory, regrets, and a life which would simply be a waiting for
death. But she had done nothing wrong,--and she must console herself
with that, if consolation could then be found.

Then there came to her a letter from Mrs. Fenwick which moved her
much. It was the second which she had received from her friend