hollow--deceptive. There was no more
careless ease; every word was guarded, and every action planned. It was
a dreary life to both. Once, Eleanor brought in a little baby, a
neighbor's child, to try and tempt Nest out of herself, by her old love
of children. Nest's pale face flushed as she saw the innocent child in
her mother's arms; and, for a moment, she made as if she would have
taken it; but then, she turned away, and hid her face behind her apron,
and murmured, "I shall never have a child to lie in my breast, and call
me mother!" In a minute she arose, with compressed and tightened lips,
and went about her household works, without her noticing the cooing baby
again, till Mrs. Gwynn, heart-sick at the failure of her little plan,
took it back to its parents.

One day the news ran through Pen-Morfa that Edward Williams was about to
be married. Eleanor had long expected this intelligence. It came upon
her like no new thing; but it was the filling-up of her cup of woe. She
could not tell Nest. She sat listlessly in the house, and dreaded that
each neighbor who came in would speak about the village news. At last,
some one did. Nest looked round from her employment, and talked of the
event with a kind of cheerful curiosity as to the particulars, which
made her informant go away, and tell others that Nest had quite left off
caring for Edward Williams. But when the door was shut, and Eleanor and
she were left alone, Nest came and stood before her weeping mother like
a stern accuser.

"Mother, why did not you let me die? Why did you keep me alive for
this?" Eleanor could not speak, but she put her arms out toward her
girl. Nest turned away, and Eleanor cried aloud in her soreness of
spirit. Nest came again.

"Mother, I was wrong. You did your best. I don't know how it is I am so
hard and cold. I wish I had died when I was a girl, and had a feeling
heart."

"Don't speak so, my child. God has afflicted you sore, and your hardness
of heart is but for a time. Wait a little. Don't reproach yourself, my
poor Nest. I understand your ways. I don't mind them, love. The feeling
heart will come back to you in time. Any ways, don't think you're
grieving me, because, love, that may sting you when I'm gone; and I'm
not grieved, my darling. Most times we're very cheerful, I think."

After this, mother and child were drawn more together. But Eleanor had
received her death from these sorrowful, hurrying events. She did not
conceal the