As she worked herself into wrath, thinking now of the man she
loved, and then of the man she did not love, she thought that she could
willingly perish--if it were not that her father lay there so old
and so helpless. Gradually, as she magnified to herself the terrible
distresses of her heart, the agony of her yearning love for a man who,
though he loved her, was so unworthy of her perfect faith, she began to
think that it would be well to be carried down by the quick, eternal,
almighty stream beyond the reach of the sorrow which encompassed her.
When her father should leave her she would be all alone--alone in the
world, without a friend to regard her, or one living human being on
whom she, a girl, might rely for protection, shelter, or even for a
morsel of bread. Would St Nicholas cover her from the contumely of the
world, or would St John of the Bridges feed her? Did she in her heart
of hearts believe that even the Virgin would assist her in such a
strait? No; she had no such belief. It might be that such real belief
had never been hers.
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