Marie Bromar was a fine, high-spirited, animated girl; but it must not be thought that she was a highly educated lady, or that time had been given to her amidst all her occupations, in which she could allow her mind to dwell much on feelings of romance.  Her life had ever been practical, busy, and full of action.  As is ever the case with those who have to do chiefly with things material, she was thinking more frequently of the outer wants of those around her, than of the inner workings of her own heart and personal intelligence.  Would the bread rise well?  Would that bargain she had made for poultry suffice for the house?  Was that lot of wine which she had persuaded her uncle to buy of a creditable quality?  Were her efforts for increasing her uncle’s profits compatible with satisfaction on the part of her uncle’s guests?  Such were the questions which from day to day occupied her attention and filled her with interest.  And therefore her own identity was not strong to her, as it is strong to those whose business permits them to look frequently into themselves, or whose occupations are of a nature to produce such introspection.  If her head ached, or had she lamed her hand by any accident, she would think more of the injury to the household arising from her incapacity than of her own pain.  It is so, reader, with your gardener, your groom, or your cook, if you will think of it.  Till you tell them by your pity that they are the sufferers, they will think that it is you who are most affected by their ailments.  And the man who loses his daily wage because he is ill complains of his loss and not of his ailment.  His own identity is half hidden from him by the practical wants of his life.

Had Marie been disappointed in her love without the appearance of any rival suitor, no one would have ever heard of her love.  Had George Voss married, she would have gone on with her work without a sign of outward sorrow; or had he died, she would have wept for him with no peculiar tears.  She did not expect much from the world around her, beyond this, that the guests should not complain about their suppers as long as the suppers provided were reasonably good.  Had no great undertaking been presented to her, the performance of no heavy task demanded from her, she would have gone on with her work without showing even by the altered colour of her cheek that she was a sufferer.  But this other man had come,—­this Adrian Urmand; and a great undertaking was presented to her, and the performance of a heavy task was demanded from her.  Then it was necessary that there should be identity of self and introspection.  She had to ask herself whether the task was practicable, whether its performance was within the scope of her powers.  She told herself at first that it was not to be done; that it was one which she would not even attempt.  Then as she looked at it more frequently, as she came to understand how great was the urgency of her uncle; as she came to find, in performing that task