Evereld, glancing at Mrs. Hereford, saw for the first time in her face an expression which startled her. A look of long endured pain, of heart-breaking disappointment and the wearily deferred hope which makes the heart sick, such a look as a martyr might have borne, dying in the darkest hour which heralded the sunrise of his cause.
And then even as she gazed the look passed and there was once more in the face nothing but cheerful, tender motherliness.
“Good night, dear little woman,” said Mrs. Hereford. “Don’t lie awake thinking too long. It is a shocking bad habit.”
“Oh,” cried Evereld, clinging with girlish devotion to her hostess. “I do so hope my love for Ralph will not make me grow narrow. I want to care for other people and for outside things just as you do.”
“You must manage much better than I did, dear,” said Mrs. Hereford, “perhaps after my own mistakes I may be able to help you.”
CHAPTER XXIII
“He spoke of beauty: that the dull
Saw no divinity in grass,