unday Night Express shrieked up the valley, and thundered by and
away in the dark. Sharley leaned far out into the wind to listen to the
dying sound, and wondered what it would seem like to-morrow morning when
it carried him away. With its pause one of those sudden hushes fell
again upon the wind. The homesick bird fluttered about a little, hunting
for its nest.

"Never to be his wife!" moaned Sharley. What did it mean? "Never to be
his wife?" She pressed her hands up hard against her two temples, and
considered:--

Moppet and the baby, and her mother's headaches; milking the cow, and
kneading the bread, and darning the stockings; going to church in old
hats,--for what difference was it going to make to anybody now, whether
she trimmed them with Scotch plaid or sarcenet cambric?--coming home to
talk over revivals with Deacon Snow, or sit down in a proper way, like
other old people, in the house with a lamp, and read Somebody's Life and
Letters. Never any more moonlight, and watching, and strolling! Never
any more hoping, or wishing, or expecting, for Sharley.

She jumped a little off her window-sill; then sat down again. That was
it. Moppet, and the baby, and her mother, and kneading, and milking,
and darning, for thirty, for forty, for--the dear Lord, who pitied her,
only knew how many years.

But Sharley did not incline to think much about the Lord just then. She
was very miserable, and very much alone and unhelped. So miserable, so
alone and unhelped, that it never occurred to her to drop down right
there with her despairing little face on the window-sill and tell Him
all about it. O Sharley! did you not think He would understand?

She had made up her mind--decidedly made up her mind--not to go to sleep
that night. The unhappy girls in the novels always sit up, you know.
Besides, she was too wretched to sleep. Then the morning train went
early, at half past five, and she should stay here till it came.

This was very good reasoning, and Sharley certainly was very unhappy,--as
unhappy as a little girl of eighteen can well be; and I suppose it
would sound a great deal better to say that the cold morning looked in
upon her sleepless pain, or that Aurora smiled upon her unrested eyes,
or that she kept her bitter watch until the stars grew pale (and a fine
chance that would be to describe a sunrise too); but truth compels me to
state that she did what some very unhappy people have done before
her,--found the window-s