‘For life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom: And heated hot with burning fears, And dipped in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the strokes of doom, To shape and use.’ Ellen Nelson had conjured her young lady not to fret, for that there was no man in the world who was worth it. But her words had been spoken into ears made unconscious of their meaning by the heart’s agony–and for answer, Miss Ford had fainted in her old nurse’s arms; or, if not absolutely fainting, she had been stunned and stupid with despair and the shock and horror of the blow. But that merciful unconsciousness did not last long. Soon she roused again to reality; opening her eyes, and perplexed at first to account for the blank dejection she felt–for the throbbing of her temples, and the aching of her heart. Then it all rushed over her mind: Ellen’s arrival; her brief, portentous words–the letter she had brought–Sara started up. ‘Ellen, where is the letter I was reading?’ ‘Never mind the letter, Miss Ford. It will do you no good to read it.’ ‘I wish to see it. Give it to me, if you please.’ Reluctantly, Ellen was obliged to yield up the hated scrap of paper, which her mistress read through again, with a calm and unmoved countenance. Then she took off Jerome’s ring, and with hands that were now as steady as need be, made it up into a little parcel, directed it, and said: ‘Ellen, I am very sorry to send you out again, so tired as you are; but if you love me, you must go and put this in the post for me–get it registered, or whatever it needs–I don’t know. There is a quarter of an hour. I dare not trust it to anyone else.’ ‘Surely I will, ma’am, this moment. And ... you won’t be working yourself into a state again, while I am out?’ ‘Certainly not. Why should I? That packet that you hold in your hand–when it is safely gone, I shall be at peace.’ ‘I am glad of it, ma’am,’ said Ellen, taking the letter, and hastening as quickly as she might, to and from the Post-Office. On her return she found that her young lady had indeed not been idle. One end of the table was spread with a cloth, and she had placed upon it bread and butter, and cold meat. The gas-stand was lighted, and the little kettle upon it was singing cheerily–everything looked bright and cheerful, only that Miss Ford’s face was white and haggard, and her eyes hollow, while just between her eyebrows there was a slight fold, telling of a world of mental suffering. ‘Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Ellen, almost shocked; ‘you shouldn’t have done that. I could have got my supper ready without so much trouble.’