It was with curiously mingled feelings that she gazed from her
window on the chimneys of Thornwick. How much had come to her
since first, in the summer-seat at the end of the yew-hedge, Mr.
Wardour opened to her the door of literature! It was now autumn,
and the woods, to get young again, were dying their yearly death.
For the moment she felt as if she, too, had begun to grow old.
Ministration had tired her a little--but, oh! how different its
weariness from that which came of labor amid obstruction and
insult! Her heart beat a little slower, perhaps, but she could
now be sad without losing a jot of hope. Nay, rather, the least
approach of sadness would begin at once to wake her hope. She
regretted nothing that had come, nothing that had gone. She
believed more and more that not anything worth having is ever
lost; that even the most evanescent shades of feeling are safe
for those who grow after their true nature, toward that for which
they were made--in other and higher words, after the will of God.
But she did for a moment taste some bitterness in her cup, when,
one day, on the footpath of Testbridge, near the place where,
that memorable Sunday, she met Mr. Wardour, she met him again,
and, looking at her, and plainly recognizing her, he passed
without salutation. Like a sudden wave the blood rose to her
face, and then sank to the deeps of her heart; and from somewhere
came the conviction that one day the destiny of Godfrey Wardour
would be in her hands: he had done more for her than any but her
father; and, when that day was come, he should not find her fail
him!
She was then on her way to the shop.
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