But the picture is unfinished, as every picture is unfinished without a human figure. It is to colours upon canvas what the eye is to the face, what the sun is to the sky.
At the side door of the homestead is a young woman. She is attending to a throstle suspended from the wooden porch in its wicker cage. Her face is pale, its expression is sad and thoughtful. It is evident that she has been early acquainted with sorrow.
It would be difficult for many, who had known her in earlier years, to recognise this young woman as the once gay and sprightly Jane Ryan.
A strange change has come over Jane. She moves about the house, and grounds attached thereto, in a mechanical and listless manner. Her household duties are attended to with even greater care and thoughtfulness than heretofore; but a settled melancholy seems to have fallen upon her, her cheeks are wan and pale, her features are thinner and more delicately chiselled. It is painfully evident to all within the farmer’s domicile that Jane is a prey to a deep-seated, and, it is feared by some, an incurable sorrow.
Nevertheless, she does not complain—does not for a moment admit that she is otherwise than in her wonted health.
Those about her, however, are of a different opinion. The Ashbrooks shake their heads. Miss Ashbrook, in answer to her brother’s questions, murmurs, “Fading away.”
“Poor girl, she cannot forget the past, and, to say the truth, it be no wonder,” said the farmer’s sister on more than one occasion, when the question was discussed.
“This is an upright straight for’ard good gell!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook. “That what she be, and I donna’ like to see her thus. Ye must do your best, Maude, to cheer her up.”
“I ha’ done so, many and many a time.”
“Ah! that be but right and proper. I cannot see why she should take on so. The past be passed away, it canna’ be recalled. But ha’ left its traces behind—any one on us can see that,” observes John Ashbrook. “Let the lass alone—maybe she’ll get over it after a bit.”