suicide, nothing could seem more natural. But
when, day after day, she heard the same thing for weeks, she began to
fear he would never be able to resume his practice, at least at Glaston,
and wept bitterly at the thought of the evil she had brought upon him
who had given her life, and love to boot. For her heart was a genuine
one, and dwelt far more on the wrong her too eager love had done him,
than on the hardness with which he had resented it. Nay, she admired him
for the fierceness of his resentment, witnessing, in her eyes, to the
purity of the man whom his neighbors regarded as wicked.

After the first day, she paid even less heed to any thing of a religious
kind with which Dorothy, in the strength of her own desire after a
perfect stay, sought to rouse or console her. When Dorothy ventured on
such ground, which grew more and more seldom, she would sit listless,
heedless, with a far-away look. Sometimes when Dorothy fancied she had
been listening a little, her next words would show that her thoughts had
been only with her husband. When the subsiding of the deluge of her
agony, allowed words to carry meaning to her, any hint at supernal
consolation made her angry, and she rejected every thing Dorothy said,
almost with indignation. To seem even to accept such comfort, she would
have regarded as traitorous to her husband. Not the devotion of the
friend who gave up to her all of her life she could call her own,
sufficed to make her listen even with a poor patience. So absorbed was
she in her trouble, that she had no feeling of what poor Dorothy had
done for her. How can I blame her, poor lady! If existence was not a
thing to be enjoyed, as for her it certainly was not at present, how was
she to be thankful for what seemed its preservation? There was much
latent love to Dorothy in her heart; I may go further and say there was
much latent love to God in her heart, only the latter was very latent as
yet. When her heart was a little freer from grief and the agony of loss,
she would love Dorothy; but God must wait with his own patience--wait
long for the child of His love to learn that her very sorrow came of His
dearest affection. Who wants such affection as that? says the unloving.
No one, I answer; but every one who comes to know it, glorifies it as
the only love that ever could satisfy his being.

Dorothy, who had within her the chill of her own doubt, soon yielded to
Juliet's coldness, and ceased to say anything that