Chapter Thirteenth.
"In desert wilds, in midnight gloom,
In grateful joy, in trying pain,
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb,
Ah! when is prayer unheard or vain?"
Eliza Cook.
The cold, grey dawn of the winter morning was stealing in at the windows as at last, sighing heavily, the governess lifted her head with a returning consciousness of her surroundings.
How dreary it all looked, in the dim, uncertain light! the disordered room, the fireless hearth—fit emblem, as it seemed, of the cold, almost dead heart within her.
Life was like a desert at that moment, a rough, weary road where thorns and briars constantly pierced her tired feet. Why should she stay? Why not lie down and rest in a quiet grave?