blissful cares of dress, happened to
go up that evening earlier than her wont to bed. She sat by herself in
the firelight, with many gorgeous things around her--wedding presents
from great people, and (what touched her more) the humble offerings of
her cottage friends. As she looked on these and thought of all the good
will they expressed, and how a little kindness gathers such a heap of
gratitude, glad tears shone in her bright eyes, and she only wished that
all the world could be as blessed as she was.

To her entered Mother Eyebright, now unworthy of her name; and sobbing,
writhing, crushing anguish is a thing which even Frida, simple and
open-hearted one, would rather keep to her own poor self.

CHAPTER VII.

Upon the following day she was not half so wretched and lamentable as
was expected of her. She even showed a brisk and pleasant air to the
chief seamstress, and bade her keep some pretty things for the time of
her own wedding. Even to her father she behaved as if there had been
nothing more than happens every day. The worthy baron went to fold her
in his arms, and let her cry there; but she only gave him a kiss,
and asked the maid for some salt butter. Lord de Wichehalse, being
disappointed of his outlet, thought (as all his life he had been forced
to think continually) that any sort of woman, whether young or old, is
wonderful. And so she carried on, and no one well could understand her.

She, however, in her own heart, knew the ups and downs of it. She alone
could feel the want of any faith remaining, the ache of ever stretching
forth and laying hold on nothing. Her mind had never been encouraged--as
with maidens nowadays--to-magnify itself, and soar, and scorn the heart
that victuals it. All the deeper was her trouble, being less to be
explained.

For a day or two the story is that she contrived to keep her distance,
and her own opinion of what had been done to her. Child and almost baby
as her father had considered her, even he was awed from asking what she
meant to do about it. Something seemed to keep her back from speaking
of her trouble, or bearing to have it spoken of. Only to her faithful
hound, with whom she now began again to wander in the oak-wood, to him
alone had she the comfort of declaring anything. This was a dog of fine
old English breed and high connections, his great-grandmother having
owned a kennel at Whitehall itself--a very large and well-conducted dog,
and now an old one, go