forward tending the saw.

As she went down the hill, she pressed involuntarily her hands
upon her heart, for the dull heavy pain there. But that was no
plaster for it; and when she got to the bridge the soft
singing of the little brook was just enough to shake her
spirits from the doubtful poise they had kept. Giving one
hasty glance along the road and up the hill, to make sure that
no one was near, she sat down on a stone in the edge of the
woods, and indulged in such weeping as her gentle eyes rarely
knew; for the habit of patience so cultivated for others' sake
constantly rewarded her own life with its sweet fruits. But
deep and bitter in proportion was the flow of the fountain
once broken up. She struggled to remind herself that
"Providence runneth not on broken wheels;" she struggled to
repeat to herself what she did not doubt, that, "_all_ the ways
of the Lord are mercy and truth" to his people; — in vain. The
slight check for a moment to the torrent of grief but gave it
greater head to sweep over the barrier; and the self-reproach
that blamed its violence and needlessness only made the flood
more bitter. Nature fought against patience for awhile; but
when the loaded heart had partly relieved itself, patience
came in again, and she rose up to go home. It startled her
exceedingly to find Mr. Olmney standing before her, and
looking so sorrowful that Fleda's eyes could not bear it.

"My dear Miss Ringgan! — forgive me — I hope you will forgive
me — but I could not leave you in such distress. I knew that
in you it could only be from some very serious cause of
grief."