him:  she was become necessary to his tyranny; he would never willingly loosen his grasp on her.  She had a vague notion of some protection the law might give her, if she could prove her life in danger from him; but she shrank utterly, as she had always done, from any active, public resistance or vengeance:  she felt too crushed, too faulty, too liable to reproach, to have the courage, even if she had had the wish to put herself openly in the position of a wronged woman seeking redress.  She had no strength to sustain her in a course of self-defence and independence:  there was a darker shadow over her life than the dread of her husband—­it was the shadow of self-despair.  The easiest thing would be to go away and hide herself from him.  But then there was her mother:  Robert had all her little property in his hands, and that little was scarcely enough to keep her in comfort without his aid.  If Janet went away alone he would be sure to persecute her mother; and if she did go away—­what then?  She must work to maintain herself; she must exert herself, weary and hopeless as she was, to begin life afresh.  How hard that seemed to her!  Janet’s nature did not belie her grand face and form:  there was energy, there was strength in it; but it was the strength of the vine, which must have its broad leaves and rich clusters borne up by a firm stay.  And now she had nothing to rest on—­no faith, no love.  If her mother had been very feeble, aged, or sickly, Janet’s deep pity and tenderness might have made a daughter’s duties an interest and a solace; but Mrs. Raynor had never needed tendance; she had always been giving help to her daughter; she had always been a sort of humble ministering spirit; and it was one of Janet’s pangs of memory, that instead of being her mother’s comfort, she had been her mother’s trial.  Everywhere the same sadness!  Her life was a sun-dried, barren tract, where there was no shadow, and where all the waters were bitter.

No!  She suddenly thought—­and the thought was like an electric shock—­there was one spot in her memory which seemed to promise her an untried spring, where the waters might be sweet.  That short interview with Mr. Tryan had come back upon her—­his voice, his words, his look, which told her that he knew sorrow.  His words have implied that he thought his death was near; yet he had a faith which enabled him to labour—­enabled him to give comfort to others.  That look of his came back on her with a vividness greater than it had had for her in reality:  surely he knew more of the secrets of sorrow than other men; perhaps he had some message of comfort, different from the feeble words she had been used to hear from others.  She was tired, she was sick of that barren exhortation—­Do right, and keep a clear conscience, and God will reward you, and your troubles will be easier to bear.  She wanted strength to do right—­she wanted something to rely on besides her own resolutions; for was not the path behind her all strewn with broken resolutions?  How could she trust in new ones?  She had often heard Mr. Tryan laughed at for being fond of great sinners.  She began to see a new meaning in those words; he would perhaps understand her helplessness, her wants.  If she could pour out her heart to him! if she could for the first time in her life unlock all the chambers of her soul!