real and sharp, they roused her spirit keenly. Bent on
victory over a mortal pain, she did her best to quell it. Never had she
been seen so busy, so studious, and, above all, so active. She took
walks in all weathers, long walks in solitary directions. Day by day she
came back in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, yet seemingly not
fatigued; for still, as soon as she had thrown off her bonnet and shawl,
she would, instead of resting, begin to pace her apartment. Sometimes
she would not sit down till she was literally faint. She said she did
this to tire herself well, that she might sleep soundly at night. But if
that was her aim it was unattained; for at night, when others slumbered,
she was tossing on her pillow, or sitting at the foot of her couch in
the darkness, forgetful, apparently, of the necessity of seeking repose.
Often, unhappy girl! she was crying--crying in a sort of intolerable
despair, which, when it rushed over her, smote down her strength, and
reduced her to childlike helplessness.

When thus prostrate, temptations besieged her. Weak suggestions
whispered in her weary heart to write to Robert, and say that she was
unhappy because she was forbidden to see him and Hortense, and that she
feared he would withdraw his friendship (not love) from her, and forget
her entirely, and begging him to remember her, and sometimes to write to
her. One or two such letters she actually indited, but she never sent
them: shame and good sense forbade.

At last the life she led reached the point when it seemed she could bear
it no longer, that she must seek and find a change somehow, or her heart
and head would fail under the pressure which strained them. She longed
to leave Briarfield, to go to some very distant place. She longed for
something else--the deep, secret, anxious yearning to discover and know
her mother strengthened daily; but with the desire was coupled a doubt,
a dread--if she knew her, could she love her? There was cause for
hesitation, for apprehension on this point. Never in her life had she
heard that mother praised; whoever mentioned her mentioned her coolly.
Her uncle seemed to regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacit
antipathy; an old servant, who had lived with Mrs. James Helstone for a
short time after her marriage, whenever she referred to her former
mistress, spoke with chilling reserve--sometimes she called her "queer,"
sometimes she said she did not understand her. These expressions were