During the night she had plumbed the depths of depression, but in a short deep morning sleep, she had found the strength to possess her soul, not in patience, but in a sweet, firm resistance. She would accept cheerfully the lot she had chosen, for to bear dumbly and passively the many petty wrongs which ill-temper and dislike must bring her would only tempt those who hated her to a continuance and enlargement of their sin. Every one, even her husband, would despise her, and she suddenly remembered how God, when He would reason with Job, bid him rise from his dunghill, stand upon his feet, and answer Him like a man. So, she would submit to no injustice, nor suffer without contradiction any lying accusation, yet her weapons of defence should be kind and clean, and her victory won by love and truth and honor--for in this way she herself would rise by --"_the things put under her feet, By what she mastered of good and gain, By the pride deposed, by the passion slain, And the vanquished ills she would hourly meet._" The prospect of such a victory made her heart swell with a noble joy, for thus she would be creating her spiritual self, and so being God-like be also loved of God. Her first effort was to compel herself to go to the breakfast table. She wished to have Ducie bring her a cup of coffee and a couple of rolls to her room, but that would only be shirking the inevitable. So she went to the family table smiling, and almost radiant in a pretty pink gown, and beautiful white muslin neckwear. Her manner was cheerful and conciliatory, but it utterly failed, because the old lady believed it to be the result of orders from her son. She was sure Robert had seen the reasonableness of her conduct, and told Theodora to accept the circumstances as unavoidable, and perhaps even excusable. So in spite of her smiles and efforts at conversation, the meal was silent and unhappy and towards the end really distressing. It had begun with oatmeal porridge served on large dinner plates, and she had accepted her share without remark, though unable to eat it. But later, when a dish of boiled salt herring appeared, its peculiar odor made her so sick that it was with painful difficulty she sat through the meal. Robert noticed her white face and general air of distress, and slightly hurried his own meal in consequence. "Are you ill, Dora?" he asked, when she fell nauseated and limp among the sofa cushions. "It was the smell of the salt fish, Robert. I could not conquer it." "But you must try. We have boiled salt herring every morning. I do not remember a breakfast without them." "Then, dear Robert, I must have a cup of coffee in my dressing-room." "You might learn to bear the smell." "The ordeal would be too wasteful of life." "I don't see----"