“Are you awake still, my darling?” asked her mother, tenderly. Some instinctive sympathy had led her to her child’s door, and she had heard that impatient little speech. “What is the matter, dearest; you will tell your mother, will you not?”
“Oh, mother, why have you come? I never meant you to know.” But here she broke down, and clasped her mother’s neck convulsively. “I am glad—I will be glad that he is so happy; but oh, mother, I want him so—I want him so.” And then Mrs. Trafford knew that the wound was deep—very deep indeed.
CHAPTER XXIX.
A GLIMPSE OF THE DARK VALLEY.
Not alone unkindness
Rends a woman’s heart;
Oft through subtler piercings
Wives and mothers die.
Though the cord of silver
Never feel a strain;
Though the golden language