“What have I done to suffer so much through life,” was the mental question ever uppermost.

Gerald Bereford had fought the battle of life bravely.  He had taken part in its conflicts and struggles, never flinching from his post when duty called.  Ambition had dazzlingly tempted him on—­on—­further on.  He must be victorious in gaining the cause for which so many had fought with firm determination.  Could he have lived to see the result of such political warfare—­its blessings and its privileges—­its freedom—­he might exclaim with the brave general, “I die happy.”  But he did die happy.  He lived a happy life—­he died a happy death.

Lady Rosamond had many kind friends amidst this sad bereavement.  Her pale face had power to move the most stoical—­more powerful than the loudest outbursts of grief, or the paroxysms of a passionate and unsubdued sorrow.

What she suffered in those hours of silent anguish Heaven alone can ever know.  Thoughts forced themselves upon her almost too hard to bear.  Truly did she need the strength for which she had prayed on a former occasion.  It seems a sacrilegious intrusion to unveil the heart of this truly devoted woman, who had sacrificed her entire being to the wishes and welfare of one whom she had calmly laid to rest.  Fain would we stop here.  But the sequel must be told.

Lady Rosamond had married Gerald Bereford with a firm resolve to be a dutiful and yielding wife, yet her heart had refused to follow.  She never loved the man who lived upon her smiles.  Still he knew it not.  She was to him kind, loving, and pure.  She was indeed kind.  In every action shone kindness in characters of bold relief.  Everyone who knew her found naught but true kindness. Loving?  Yes, loving; though Gerald Bereford stirred not the depths of Lady Rosamond’s heart, she was capable of a love as undying as the soul that gave it birth.  It was her life—­her being.  In pity for her faithful husband she had guarded every secret passage of the heart which might lead to the betrayal of bitter and desolate feelings. Pure?  Yes; purity was the guiding star which marked the daily course of this woman’s existence.  Her acts were pure—­her mind was pure—­her heart was pure—­every thought was pure.  There was purity in her sorrow, leading to pure and holy thoughts—­speaking to the soul—­giving comfort—­giving hope.

In deep sincerity did Lady Rosamond mourn for her husband.  She mourned his loss as that of a loved brother—­a dear friend—­one in whom she confided.  She found much comfort in the thought of having done her best.  She had fulfilled her duty—­she had struggled bravely.  She had cheered her husband’s path through life—­she had kept her secret—­made one being happy.  Surely such thoughts must have offered some relief.  She had committed no wrong, having gone forth at the summon of duty, she had taken upon her frail, trembling form, a cross overpowering in its weight, yet she murmured not.