Her life had been a hard continuous fight with difficulty after the first few years of her wedded existence.  She had seen her gay, pleasure-loving husband change under the iron grasp of untoward circumstances into a querulous, bitter, disappointed man, rewarding all her efforts to keep their heads above water by sarcastic complaints of her narrow stinginess, venting on her the remorseful consciousness, unacknowledged to himself, that his reverses were the result of his own reckless extravagance.  Perhaps to her true heart the cruelest pain of all was the gradual dying out, or rather killing out, of the love she once bore him, the vanishing, one by one, of the illusions she cherished respecting him, till she saw the man as he really was, weak, unstable, self-indulgent, incapable of true manliness.  Still she was patient with him to the last; and when she was relieved by friendly death from the charge of so wilful and ungrateful a burden—­though things were easier, because hers was the sole authority—­it was a constant strain to provide the education necessary for her boy.  But that accomplished, she had a sweet interlude with her daughter in humble peace, and while she did her best to arm the child for the conflict of life, she avoided weakening herself by too much thought for her future.  This spell of repose was broken by the necessity for sacrificing some of her small capital to set her son free from his embarrassments.  Then came his death and her present experiment in house-keeping in order to give his widow and children a refuge.

For the last four or five years she had made a welcome addition to her small income by her pen, contributing to the smaller weekly periodicals stories and sketches; for Mrs. Liddell had seen much with keen, observant eyes, and had a fair share of humor.  This small success had tempted her to spend several months on a three-volume novel, thereby depriving herself of present remuneration which shorter, lighter tales had brought in.  She sorely feared this ambitious step was a mistake—­that she had over-estimated her own powers.  She feared that she could never manage to keep up the very humble establishment she had started.  Above all, she feared that her own health and physical force were failing.  It was such an effort to do much that formerly was as nothing.  That attack of bronchitis last spring had tried her severely:  she had never felt quite the same since.  And if she were called away, what would become of Katherine?  Never was there a dearer daughter than her Katie.  She knew every turn, every light and shade in her nature—­her faults, her pride and hastiness, her deep, tender heart.  A sob rose in her throat at the idea of Katherine being left alone to engage single-handed in the struggle for existence.  No!  She would live!—­she would battle on with poverty and difficulty till Katherine was a few years older; till she was stronger and better able to stand alone.

“Yet she is strong and brave for nineteen,” thought the mother, proudly.  “Perhaps I have kept her too much by my side.  I wish I could let her pay a visit to the Mitchells.  They have asked her repeatedly; but we must not think of it at present.”