That winter was very sad. They learned nothing of Aaron Dunn till about January; and then they heard that he was doing very well. He was engaged on the Erie trunk line, was paid highly, and was much esteemed. And yet he neither came nor sent! “He has an excellent situation,” their informant told them. “And a permanent one?” asked the widow. “Oh, yes, no doubt,” said the gentleman, “for I happen to know that they count greatly on him.” And yet he sent no word of love. After that the winter became very sad indeed. Mrs. Bell thought it to be her duty now to teach her daughter that in all probability she would see Aaron Dunn no more. It was open to him to leave her without being absolutely a wolf. He had been driven from the house when he was poor, and they had no right to expect that he would return, now that he had made some rise in the world. “Men do amuse themselves in that way,” the widow tried to teach her. “He is not like that, mother,” she said again. “But they do not think so much of these things as we do,” urged the mother. “Don’t they?” said Susan, oh, so sorrowfully; and so through the whole long winter months she became paler and paler, and thinner and thinner. And then Hetta tried to console her with religion, and that perhaps did not make things any better. Religious consolation is the best cure for all griefs; but it must not be looked for specially with regard to any individual sorrow. A religious man, should he become bankrupt through the misfortunes of the world, will find true consolation in his religion even for that sorrow. But a bankrupt, who has not thought much of such things, will hardly find solace by taking up religion for that special occasion. And Hetta perhaps was hardly prudent in her attempts. She thought that it was wicked in Susan to grow thin and pale for love of Aaron Dunn, and she hardly hid her thoughts. Susan was not sure but that it might be wicked, but this doubt in no way tended to make her plump or rosy. So that in those days she found no comfort in her sister. But her mother’s pity and soft love did ease her sufferings, though it could not make them cease. Her mother did not tell her that she was wicked, or bid her read long sermons, or force her to go oftener to the meeting-house. “He will never come again, I think,” she said one day, as with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she leant with her head upon her mother’s bosom. “My own darling,” said the mother, pressing her child closely to her side. “You think he never will, eh, mother?” What could Mrs. Bell say? In her heart of hearts she did not think he ever would come again. “No, my child. I do not think he will.” And then the hot tears ran down, and the sobs came thick and frequent. “My darling, my darling!” exclaimed the mother; and they wept together. “Was I wicked to love him at the first,” she asked that night. “No, my child; you were not wicked at all. At least I think not.”