The months and years went on, and one morning when Lydia had been married about three years, she woke up to find herself alone, deserted by her husband, poor and almost friendless. What should she do? What could she do? The only course open to her was to return to her father's home; but this was a little trial to her proud spirit. Still it was all that was left for her to do; and taking her little girl by the hand, she entered her parents' home and begged their sympathy and support. She did not ask in vain; the farmer and his wife wept at her sorrow, but gladly took her to their arms once more.
In six months after her return, a little boy was born to her, Feb. 1832, but died almost at its birth.
The girl was quieter, sadder and more subdued than ever. Her work was well done but no light laughter went with it. Tears were often in her eyes, and a constant aching was at her heart.
One year passed away, and in January, 1833, the little girl, her mother's only comfort, was taken ill and died. The mother felt she had indeed drank the last bitter drop from sorrow's cup. She little dreamed of the grand drama of the future, in which she was to act so noble a part. God alone could soothe or heal the wound, and He did.
CHAPTER II.
Snow on the fields, on the hills and in the valleys. Snow on the house-tops and in the crevices. White, soft, dazzling snow.
The scene without was lovely beyond description. The trees weighted down with their crown of glory. But within, the inmates of the farm were comparatively prisoners.
"My dear," the mother said to her husband, "Lydia is full of sorrow. Her thoughts are far from her works; I fear for her unless something can be done to draw her mind from her trouble."
"Well, wife, these things are beyond our power Lydia will be all right in time."
"Pray God it may be so," she fervently replied.