Fern had never imagined that such sad possibilities could wither up the sweet bloom of youthful promise; she had never felt really miserable except when her father died, and then she had been only a child. She wondered in a dreary, incredulous way if this was all life meant to bring her--every day a little teaching, a little work, quiet evenings with her mother, long streets that seem to lead nowhere; no meadows, no flowers, no pretty things except in the shop windows; would she still live over Mrs. Watkins's when she was an old woman? "Oh, how empty and mean it all seems," she moaned, tossing restlessly on her hot pillow. "Are you awake still, my darling?" asked her mother, tenderly. Some instinctive sympathy had led her to her child's door, and she had heard that impatient little speech. "What is the matter, dearest; you will tell your mother, will you not?" "Oh, mother, why have you come? I never meant you to know." But here she broke down, and clasped her mother's neck convulsively. "I am glad--I will be glad that he is so happy; but oh, mother, I want him so--I want him so." And then Mrs. Trafford knew that the wound was deep--very deep indeed. CHAPTER XXIX. A GLIMPSE OF THE DARK VALLEY. Not alone unkindness Rends a woman's heart; Oft through subtler piercings Wives and mothers die. Though the cord of silver Never feel a strain; Though the golden language Cease not where ye dwell, Yet remaineth something Which, with its own pain, Breaks the finer bosom Whence true love doth well. O this life, how pleasant To be loved and love, Yet should love's hope wither Then to die were well. PHILIP STANHOPE WORSLEY. Every one noticed at the Hall that Lady Redmond was sadly altered in those days--every one but one, and that was her husband. Had Sir Hugh's indifference made him blind? for he completely ignored the idea of any change in her. She was pale and thin--very thin, they told him. Hugh said he supposed it was only natural; and when they spoke of her broken rest and failing appetite, he said that was natural, too. They must take better care of her, and not let her do so much. That was his sole remark; and then, when she came into the room a few minutes afterward to bathe his aching head and read him to sleep, or to sit fanning the teasing flies from him for the hour together, Hugh never seemed to notice the languid step or the pale, tired face, out of which the lovely color had faded. His Wee Wifie was such a dear, quiet little nurse, he said, and with that scant meed of praise Fay was supposed to be satisfied.