But it seemed a
very hopeless task still.
She looked into the blazing coals, and then began playing with a little
chimney-piece ornament showing the day of the month--21st of March.
Could it be possible that she had been married three months? Three
months since that momentous day when her solitary, self-contained life
was swept out of the narrow boundaries of self forever--made full and
busy, ay, and bright too? For it was not a sad face, far from it, which
met her in the mirror above; it was a face radiant with youth and health,
and the soft peacefulness which alone gives a kind of beauty.
Well, so best! She had not expected this, but she did not wish it
otherwise.
The clock struck eight. She was, after all, ready too soon so she
wrapped her white opera cloak around her, and went down to the
drawing-room. To pass the time, she thought she would sing a little, as
indeed she now made a point of doing daily, and would have done,
whether she cared for it or not, if only out of gratitude to the love which
had delighted itself in giving her pleasure.
But she did care for it. Nothing, nobody, could quench the artist nature
which, the instant the heavy weight of sorrow was taken away, sprang
up like a living fountain in this girl's soul.
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