And, still, my fortunes did not brighten—notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of “something turning up” on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:—my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger.
I would have borne my troubles much better, I’m certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.
There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to her mother’s wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss Pimpernell’s letters; but what could they be in comparison with letters from Min?—although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to encourage me?
It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle—that first year I passed in America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe, until my dying day.
Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success—so the world wags.
Chapter Eleven.
“Life!”
I hold it truth with him who sings,
On one clear harp, in divers tones,
That men may rise, on stepping stones
Of their dead lives, to higher things!