“Poor Rem!  Impossible is it?”

“Quite impossible, sir,” she answered.

“When he got thy letter refusing his love and offer, he went to Boston.  I think he will not come back to me.  I am very sorry,” he said simply, and he let her hands drop.

“I am sorry also—­for your sake.  I hear however that Rem is doing well in Boston.”

“Better than his hopes.  Very good fortune has come to him.”

“And you, sir?”

“I am not doing much at present—­but Smith and Warren do less.  In an hour or two to your house I will come.  There is plenty to talk about.”

The next day Cornelia walked down Broadway to Madame Jacobus’ house.  It was closed and desolate looking, and she sighed as she compared its old bright spotless comfort, with its present empty forlornness.  The change typified the change in her heart and love, but ere she could entertain the thought, her eyes fell upon the trees in the garden, full of the pale crinkled leaves of spring, and she saw the early flowers breaking through the dark earth, and the early shrubs bursting into white and golden blooms.  In some way they had a message for her; and she went home with hope budding in her heart.  Soon after Mrs. Moran heard her singing at her work,

“The far east glows,
The morning wind blows fresh and free;
Should not the hour that wakes the rose
Awaken thee? 
No longer sleep—­
Oh listen now! 
I wait and weep,
But where art thou?”

From one to another song she went, simple melodies all of them, delightful little warblings of love, which except for their gladness and loyalty, had nothing in them to charm.

She was a deserted maiden.  Her lover had palpably and with extreme cruelty deceived her; but she had grieved, and forgiven.  And love brings its reward, even if unrequited.  Those who love, and have loved, are the better for the revelation; for love for love’s sake enriches and blesses the lover to the very end of life.  She did not forget, for love has everlasting remembrance; and she did not wish to forget, for a great affection is a great happiness, and the whole soul can find shelter in it.

Neither were her days monotonous or unhappy.  All the real pleasures of life lie in narrow compass; and she found herself very often a little hurried for want of time.  She had not, it is true, the resources of the woman of to-day—­no literary, musical, social, or sporting clubs existed for Cornelia; but she had duties and devices that made every moment pleasant or profitable.  Many hours daily were given to fine needlework—­ calm quiet hours full of thought as well as work; she had her music to practice, new books and papers to read, calls to make, mantua makers and milliners to interview, dinners and dances and tea-parties to attend, shopping to look after, delicate bits of darning and mending to exercise her skill on, creams and pasties and cakes to prepare, visitors to welcome and entertain, and many other duties which sprang up—­as extras do—­unexpectedly, and yet which opened the door for very pleasant surprises and events.