After that she would talk more openly to her mother about her loss,—­openly and with a true appreciation of the misfortune which had befallen her; but with an assurance of strength which seemed to ridicule the idea of a broken heart.  “I know that I can bear it,” she said, “and that I can bear it without lasting unhappiness.  Of course I shall always love him, and must feel almost as you felt when you lost my father.”

In answer to this Mrs Dale could say nothing.  She could not speak out her thoughts about Crosbie, and explain to Lily that he was unworthy of her love.  Love does not follow worth, and is not given to excellence;—­nor is it destroyed by ill-usage, nor killed by blows and mutilation.  When Lily declared that she still loved the man who had so ill-used her, Mrs Dale would be silent.  Each perfectly understood the other, but on that matter even they could not interchange their thoughts with freedom.

“You must promise never to be tired of me, mamma,” said Lily.

“Mothers do not often get tired of their children, whatever the children may do of their mothers.”

“I’m not so sure of that when the children turn out old maids.  And I mean to have a will of my own, too, mamma; and a way also, if it be possible.  When Bell is married I shall consider it a partnership, and I shan’t do what I’m told any longer.”

“Forewarned will be forearmed.”

“Exactly;—­and I don’t want to take you by surprise.  For a year or two longer, till Bell is gone, I mean to be dutiful; but it would be very stupid for a girl to be dutiful all her life.”

All of which Mrs Dale understood thoroughly.  It amounted to an assertion on Lily’s part that she had loved once and could never love again; that she had played her game, hoping, as other girls hope, that she might win the prize of a husband; but that, having lost, she could never play the game again.  It was that inward conviction on Lily’s part which made her say such words to her mother.  But Mrs Dale would by no means allow herself to share this conviction.  She declared to herself that time would cure Lily’s wound, and that her child might yet be crowned by the bliss of a happy marriage.  She would not in her heart consent to that plan in accordance with which Lily’s destiny in life was to be regarded as already fixed.  She had never really liked Crosbie as a suitor, and would herself have preferred John Eames, with all the faults of his hobbledehoyhood on his head.  It might yet come to pass that John Eames’s love might be made happy.

But in the meantime Lily, as I have said, had become strong in her courage, and recommenced the work of living with no lackadaisical self-assurance that because she had been made more unhappy than others, therefore she should allow herself to be more idle.  Morning and night she prayed for him, and daily, almost hour by hour, she assured herself that it was still her duty to love him.  It was hard, this duty of loving, without any power of expressing such love.  But still she would do her duty.