A man says he is well, and he feels well; and yet a doctor, looking in his face, can tell that some part of the mortal machinery is out of gear, and that ere long there will come a crash which shall reveal the secret of where the mischief has been brewing; and in like manner, if anything be wrong about a human being’s life, if utterly unknown to him or herself, there is a want in it—a vacuum; a stream of affection running to waste; twining tendrils involuntarily searching about for something to cling to; if there be a mental hunger, which has not even sufficient self-knowledge to cry aloud for food; if there be a thirsting for love, which the poor draught presented fails to satisfy; if there exist aspirations higher and holier, loftier and grander, than can be fulfilled by the “daily round, the common task;” if there be an undefined feeling that the best part of the nature, bestowed by the Almighty, has never been comprehended, never called out—then, when the face of that man or that woman is in repose, there will lie brooding upon it a look of sadness, which sets the mind of an observer at work, marvelling where the inner life is out of joint—what the mental disease may be—which, unsuspected even by the patient, is eating the heart out of the fruit, the wheat out of the ripe ear of grain. And it was perhaps this second look in Heather Dudley’s face—the unconscious pathos of her expression when her features were in repose, which rendered her countenance so interesting. After all, it is not when the sunlight is streaming over the landscape that the scene appeals most to our hearts; it is the shadow lying across the hillside, the cloud darkling on the water, the shades of evening creeping stealthily down upon the bay, which gives that mournful, melancholy pathetic look to the face of Nature, that touches us like a minor chord in music, like the sound of a plaintive melody, and awakens in our souls a powerful though often almost unconscious response. In the twilight, when all harsh outlines are smoothed down, our dreams and our realities can walk forth hand in hand together, and there is but small discrepancy to be observed between them; and in like manner, when the shadow of sorrow rests upon the face of a friend, our hearts travel out to meet his. Before the wind comes and the rain descends, we can behold the approaching presence of the storm walking upon the waters, and involuntarily we stretch forth our hands towards the bark which is sailing on, dreaming of no peril, unthinking of danger. The sunshine in Heather Dudley’s face was always pleasant to look upon; and yet Bessie felt it was the inevitable shadow which attracted her, which made her cherish a love for this woman she had never felt for any other woman on earth.