For a day or two she had felt agitated, and in the solitude of her own room she had more than once wept bitterly for her love, but they were tears such as are shed for the past and gone. There was no hope in them: they brought neither relief nor thought of the future. Hazel Thorne's sorrow was for a dead love, and she preferred to think of Archibald Graves as the ideal lover of her girlish heart, not as the real suitor who had come to her now that she was a woman, who had been tried in the fire of adversity, and been found base. Hazel Thorne's business matters were two-fold--the business of the school, and the domestic affairs. With the former she was rapidly progressing. The feeling of novelty had worn off and she no longer felt afraid of being able to maintain her position among so many girls, nor wondered what the pupil-teachers were saying whenever they whispered together; but she was afraid of Mr Samuel Chute, who would come round to the door much more often than necessary, to borrow something, or ask a question or two. The domestic affairs were harder to get over because they appealed strongly to the heart, and scarcely a day passed without some new trouble. To a young girl like Hazel, after the first pangs, there was enough elasticity to make her feel happy enough in her new home. The rooms were small, the furniture common, but there was always that pleasant feeling of seeing, so to speak, the place grow. Her woman's taste set her busily at work making little things to brighten the rooms. Now a few pence were spent in pots of musk for the windows. Next there was a large scarlet geranium in full blossom that cost the extravagant sum of sixpence; then blinds were made for the windows. A dozen such little things were done week by week, and as each triumph was achieved, and the place grew daily brighter and more tasty and refined, a feeling of satisfaction would come at times into her breast in spite of the wet-blanketism that was always being laid over everything by Mrs Thorne. "It is not that I mind the humble cottage, and the pitifully mean furniture, Hazel, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "anything would do for me. I am getting an old woman now." "No, no, dear," said Hazel. "You are not old; and you are far better than you were." "You don't know, Hazel. I alone feel the worm eating away at the bud of my life; but as I was saying, I don't mind; it is for you I think and weep." "Then why think and weep, mamma dear?--there, you see I said mamma this time." "Don't say mamma to please me, Hazel I am only your poor helpless, burdensome mother, now. You say, why think and weep? I will tell you: because it breaks my heart to see my child wasting herself here, and performing the most menial duties, when she ought to be taking her place amongst the richest of the land." "I should be as happy as could be, dear, and I don't mind the work, if you would only get quite well."