they went, down the hill and out of sight.

With a sigh of relief, the mother drew her chair to the hearth, and
resolved, for that one day, to give over the struggle, and let sorrow
have its way. She dwelt on all the circumstances of the change, which so
suddenly had darkened her life. She permitted her thoughts to run upon
themes from which she had sedulously kept them, thus indulging, and as
it were, nursing her grief. She recalled the thoughtful love which had
been hers till it seemed as natural and as necessary to her as the air
she breathed. She had been an indulged wife, constantly cared for, and
lavishly supplied with everything that heart could wish. The natural
sensitiveness of her temperament had been heightened by too much
tenderness; she had been encouraged to cling like a vine, and to expect
support from without herself. She was still young and beautiful. She was
accustomed to be loved and admired by many, but that was nothing to her
in comparison with the calm unvarying estimation in which she had been
held by one faithful heart. How was she to live without this essential
element of her life?

Then the darkened future of her life rushed over her like an
overwhelming flood: the cares and duties which were henceforward to
devolve on her alone; the children who were never to know any other
parent but herself; never to know any stronger restraints from evil or
incentives to good than she in her feebleness could exert over them.
What would become of her boys as they grew older, and needed a father's
wise counsels? She saw with grief that she was even less qualified than
most mothers to exercise the sole government and providence over a
family. She had been too much indulged--too entirely screened from
contact with the world's rough ways.