Dorothy was still a stranger to the philosophy of life, which experience alone teaches; and which happily belongs to maturer years. But she had tasted enough of the fruit of the forbidden tree, to find it very bitter, and to doubt the truth of many things, which a few months before appeared as real to her as the certainty of her own existence.
Such had been Gilbert's love,—that first bright opening of life's eventful drama. It had changed so suddenly without raising a doubt, or giving her the least warning, to disturb her faith in its durability.
How often he had sworn to love her for ever. Dorothy thought those two simple words for ever, should be expunged from the vocabulary, and never be applied to things transitory again.
She had laughed at Gilbert when he talked of dying for love. She did not laugh now. She remembered feelingly how many true words are spoken in jest.
A heavy cross had been laid upon her. She had taken it up sorrowfully, but with a firm determination to bear its weight, without manifesting by word or sigh, the crown of thorns by which it was encircled, which, strive as she would, at times pierced her to the heart.
CHAPTER IV.
REMINISCENCES.
"What is the matter with Dorothy?" asked Henry Martin of his wife. "A great change has come over her lately. She looks pale, has grown very thin, and speaks in a subdued voice, as if oppressed by some great sorrow."