Slowly and painfully she realized it all.
The reflection of her pale face in the glass startled her. The sunken eyes, the tangled masses of raven hair, the look of exhaustion and hopeless woe.
Can that be Dorothy—that wan image of despair? The laughing happy country girl—what havoc a few hours has made in that gay warm heart!
A new life had dawned upon her; the bright and beautiful had vanished, and clouds and storms had gathered over the glad morning of her existence. She must now strengthen her heart for the great moral conflict between good and evil, and fight vigorously with the cares and temptations of an evil world.
"God help me!" she cried, "I feel a poor, weak, miserable creature, I that thought myself so strong. May He give me courage to bear up against this great trial, and teach me to lead an honest, virtuous life."
Brief as the prayer was, it gave her strength, and she set about her usual morning work with energetic earnestness of purpose, anxious to do all in her power for Mrs. Rushmere, before she left her.
The cows were milked, the poultry fed, a large cheese made and in the press, and the week's butter churned and dressed for market before the family met at the breakfast table.
Dorothy cast a hurried glance round the room. Her heart sank within her. Gilbert's place was vacant, and the fear that had distressed her so much on the previous night returned with redoubled force. Then, again, hope whispered, "He is in the stable preparing the horses for the field. Maybe he has gone to the meadow, to see if the hay is dry enough for carting. He would come, at any rate, to bid her good bye."
"How we shall miss our good, industrious Dorothy," said Mrs. Rushmere, to the farmer, as he took his seat at the table. "She has been hard at work for me since daybreak. I shall never find another to supply her place."
"Aye, wife, but Gilly would never be settled as long as she bides here. When the plough has been put into the field, it is of no use drawing back from the furrow."