This did not happen so, however.  As day followed day, and Herman Brudenell failed to appear, Nora Worth grew more uneasy, expectant, and anxious.  Ah! who can estimate the real heart-sickness of “hope deferred!” Every morning she said to herself:  “He will surely come to-day !” Every day each sense of hearing and of seeing was on the qui vive to catch the first sound or the first sight of his approach.  Every night she went to bed to weep in silent sorrow.

All other sorrows may be shared and lightened by sympathy except that of a young girl’s disappointment in love.  With that no one intermeddles with impunity.  To notice it is to distress her; to speak of it is to insult her; even her sister must in silence respect it; as the expiring dove folds her wing over her mortal wound, so does the maiden jealously conceal her grief and die.  Days grew into weeks, and Herman did not come.  And still Nora watched and listened as she spun—­every nerve strained to its utmost tension in vigilance and expectancy.  Human nature—­especially a girl’s nature—­cannot bear such a trial for any long time together.  Nora’s health began to fail; first she lost her spirits, and then her appetite, and finally her sleep.  She grew pale, thin, and nervous.

Hannah’s heart ached for her sister.

“This will never do,” she said; “suspense is killing her.  I must end it.”

So one morning while they were at work as usual, and Nora’s hand was pausing on her spindle, and her eyes were fixed upon the narrow path leading through the Forest Valley, Hannah spoke: 

“It will not do, dear; he is not coming! he will never come again; and since he cannot be anything to you, he ought not to come!”

“Oh, Hannah, I know it; but it is killing me!”

These words were surprised from the poor girl; for the very next instant her waxen cheeks, brow, neck, and very ears kindled up into fiery blushes, and hiding her face in her hands she sank down in her chair overwhelmed.

Hannah watched, and then went to her, and began to caress her, saying: 

“Nora, Nora, dear; Nora, love; Nora, my own darling, look up!”

“Don’t speak to me; I am glad he does not come; never mention his name to me again, Hannah,” said the stricken girl, in a low, peremptory whisper.

Hannah felt that this order must be obeyed, and so she went back to her loom and worked on in silence.

After a few minutes Nora arose and resumed her spinning, and for some time the wheel whirled briskly and merrily around.  But towards the middle of the day it began to turn slowly and still more slowly.

At length it stopped entirely, and the spinner said: 

“Hannah, I feel very tired; would you mind if I should lay down a little while?”

“No, certainly not, my darling.  Are you poorly, Nora?”

“No, I am quite well, only tired,” replied the girl, as she threw herself upon the bed.