She had enjoyed that little episode; for it had lent
romance to every thing while it lasted, even the charity basket with
which she went her rounds; for Mr. Fletcher often met her by
accident apparently, and carried it as if to prove the sincerity of
his devotion. No bouquets came now; no graceful little notes with
books or invitations to some coveted pleasure; no dangerously
delightful evenings in the recess, where, for a time, she felt and
used the power which to a woman is so full of subtle satisfaction;
no bitter-sweet hopes; no exciting dreams of what might be with the
utterance of a word; no soft uncertainty to give a charm to every
hour that passed. Nothing but daily duties, a little leisure that
hung heavy on her hands with no hope to stimulate, no lover to
lighten it, and a sore, sad heart that would clamor for its right;
and even when pride silenced it ached on with the dull pain which
only time and patience have the power to heal.
But as those weeks went slowly by, she began to discover some of the
miracles true love can work. She thought she had laid it in its
grave; but an angel rolled the stone away, and the lost passion rose
stronger, purer, and more beautiful than when she buried it with
bitter tears.
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