THE STORY OF ANNE M A TURIN. 
55 
weakness, and resolved to “be very kind” 
to her still. He could be kind with perfect 
safety now that he was going to be married, 
and he had always been fond of Anne. 
CHAPTER II. 
Miss Parker turned out to be very like 
her photograph — a pretty person, with a 
very elaborate coiffure, and a very handsome 
dress; thoroughly trained in London so- 
ciety, full of references to dear Lady Julia 
and the parties at Stafford House. She 
asked Anne whether she was going to Lady 
Uppingham’s that night, and told her that 
she understood it was to be the first of a 
series of parties, and wasn’t it delightful? 
Everything was so charmingly managed at 
dear Lady Uppingham’s. She had such 
taste. Now, the Hartleys had never been 
in the way of such supreme delight as Lady 
Uppingham’s parties, and poor little Cin- 
derella- Anne did not know what answer to 
make. Fortunately for her, a little sense 
of fun came in to help her while she was 
undergoing these interrogations — invaluable 
auxiliary for which those who possess it 
cannot be too thankful. The humor of the 
situation saved her. But Mrs. Hartley was 
much impressed by the aspect of her new 
daughter-in-law. 
“They are evidently in the very first 
society, Anne,” she said, “ as, of course, was 
to be expected in their position. What a 
thing for Francis to be among people who 
will appreciate him. There is only one 
thing that troubles me.” 
“ What is that, aunt ? ” 
“Her health, my dear,” said Mrs. Hart- 
ley, solemnly shaking her head. 
“ Oh, her health ! ” said Anne, with some- 
thing of the contempt of youth and strength. 
“What danger could there be about any 
one’s health at twenty ? ” 
And she paid no attention to her aunt’s 
maunderings (as I am afraid she thought 
them) about the character of Miss Parker’s 
complexion, its variableness, and delicacy 
of tint. Indeed, poor Anne had enough to 
think of without that. She had to conceal 
her own feelings and master her own heart. 
And she had to endure the affectionateness 
of Francis, who was more “kind” than he 
had ever been before, and would indeed be 
tender to her when he saw her alone, until, 
between despite and bitterness, and proud 
sense of injury, and a still prouder determi- 
nation not to show her sufferings, Anne felt 
often as if her heart would break. Fortu- 
nately, he was not often at home in the 
evenings, and at other times she could keep 
herself out of his way. 
And then came the marriage, an event of 
which Anne was almost glad, as it ended 
this painful interval, and carried Francis 
away to another house, where he could no 
longer gall her by his kindness, or touch her 
heart by old tones and looks, such as she 
had loved unawares all her life. Poor Anne 
— she played her part so well, that no one 
suspected her; or rather, better still, the 
sisters who had suspected her decided that 
they had been mistaken. Mrs. Hartley had 
never taken any notice at all; and if any 
one in the house had a lingering conscious- 
ness that Anne was not quite as she was 
before, it was John, the second son, a very 
quiet fellow, who communicated his ideas to 
no one, and never gave to Anne herself the 
least reason to believe that he had found 
her out. After the wedding, however, when 
all the excitement was over, Anne fell ill. 
No, she was not ill, but she was pale and 
languid, and listless, and easily tired, and so 
frightened Mrs. Hartley, that she sent for 
the doctor, who looked wise, , and ordered 
quinine, and hinted something about cod- 
liver oil. As Mrs. Hartley, however, was 
able to assure him, which she did with much 
vivacity and some pride, that disease of the 
lungs had never been known in her family, 
Anne was delivered from that terrible rem- 
edy. No, she was not ill, whatever the 
doctor might say. She was, as all highly 
strung and delicate organizations are, whom 
sheer “ pluck ” and spirit have carried through 
a mental or bodily fatigue which is quite 
beyond their powers. The moment that the 
heart fails, the strength goes ; and when the 
great necessity for strain and exertion was 
over, Anne’s heart did fail her. Life seemed 
to stop short somehow. It grew fade, 
monotonous, a seemingly endless stretch of 
blank routine, with no further motive for 
exertion in it. All was flat and blank, which 
a little while before had been so bright. She 
made no outcry against Providence, nor did 
she envy Miss Parker, now Mrs. Francis 
Hartley, or bemoan her own different fate. 
Anne was too sensible and too genuine for 
any of these theatrical expedients. She 
cursed nobody ; she blamed nobody ; but 
her heart failed her: it was all that could be 
said. Her occupations and amusements had 
been of the simplest kind ; nothing in them 
at all, indeed, but the spirit and force of joy- 
ous,' youthful life, with which she threw her- 
self into everything ; and now that spirit was 
