Strangely enough, she never thought that she was young and pretty and well born, and might form new ties, if she would.  She never reasoned upon the subject, for the bare possibility did not once enter her mind.  This was the more strange, that she had never been in love, and there were no memories to rise up and haunt her like ghosts of forgotten joys, no dear face that had beamed upon her with the one profound affection that comes to every one at some period of their lives.  There were only two graves under the willows that contained all that had ever been dear to her in life.  She never dreamed of any other love than theirs, who had watched over her childhood, and left her, with prayers to heaven for her safety upon their pallid lips.  Her one hope was to live so that she might meet them again, and that it might be said of her, “She hath done what she could.”

Clemence Graystone was possessed of little worldly ambition, and she had no incentive to exertion, beyond what was necessary to maintain an honorable independence.  She was content, with fine talents that might have won her a name, to be left behind upon the road to fame by those who were better adapted to the contest.  What was it to her?  A short-lived popularity, the adulation of the vulgar, the cool, critical glances of those who might sympathize and appreciate, but ever seemed more ready to condemn.  She had no wish to be petted by the crowd, or court the gaze of idle curiosity.  Better solitude and her own thoughts.

She had enough of the latter, you may well believe.  Obscure and poverty-stricken, the world passed on, and forgot even her existence, after a way it has.  She did not “keep up with the times,” and she was left by the receding tide, a lonely waif upon unknown shores.  What lay before her, God alone knew.  Clemence felt grieved, too, to find that she was not liked by the village people.  Old Mrs. Wynn took care to inform her of that, with a due amount of exaggeration.  Her crime consisted in minding her own business, and letting others do the same—­and they called her gentle reticence, “airs,” said she felt above common folks, and prophesied that any amount of evil would befall her.  She did not know that it is a trait of human nature to condemn that, which, through ignorance, people cannot appreciate the value.  Therefore she mourned in secret, and blamed herself for being unsocial, and tried hard to be patient and forgiving.

At this juncture, when she most needed a counsellor, she made an acquaintance, and formed a lasting friendship.  She had often admired, upon the outskirts of the village, a pretty cottage, embowered in trees, and curiosity had led her to question others about its occupant.  She could only learn that a lady by the name of Hardyng lived there, quite alone.  That was all she could find out in regard to it.

One morning, however, very much to her surprise, as she had never met the lady, she found on her desk an informal invitation to visit her at the cottage.  Tired of her own thoughts, and wishing for something to take up her attention, she at once resolved to accept it—­and, in pursuance of this determination, after school was dismissed, responded to the message in person.  The door was opened immediately on her low rap.