no companions of any sympathy--for the family of a hard-working New
England farmer are not the Chloes and Clarissas of pastoral poetry, nor
are cow-boys Corydons--with no opportunity of retirement and cultivation,
for reading and studying--which is always voted "stuff" under such
circumstances--the light suddenly quenched out of life, what was she
to do?

"Adapt herself to her circumstances. Why had she shot from her sphere
in this silly way?" demands unanimous common-sense in valiant heroics.

The simple answer is, that she had only used all her opportunities,
and that, although it was no fault of hers that the routine of her
life was in every way repulsive, she did struggle to accommodate
herself to it--and failed. When she found it impossible to drag on at
home, she became an inmate of a refined and cultivated household in
the village, where she had opportunity to follow her own fancies, and
to associate with educated and attractive persons. But even here she
could not escape the feeling that it was all temporary, that her
position was one of dependence; and her pride, now grown morbid, often
drove her from the very society which alone was agreeable to her. This
was all genuine. There was not the slightest strain of the _femme
incomprise_ in her demeanor. She was always shy and silent, with a
touching reserve which won interest and confidence, but left also a
vague sadness in the mind of the observer. After a few months she made
another effort to rend the cloud which was gradually darkening around
her, and opened a school for young children. But although the interest
of friends secured for her a partial success, her gravity and sadness
failed to excite the sympathy of her pupils, who missed in her the
playful gayety always most winning to children. Martha, however,
pushed bravely on, a figure of tragic sobriety to all who watched her