How she longed for the common and the fields and the woods, where the very essence of life seemed to dwell in the atmosphere even when stillest, and the joy that came pouring from the throats of the birds seemed to flow first from her own soul into them! The very streets and lanes of Testbridge looked like paradise to Mary in Lon-don.

But she never wished herself in the shop again, although almost every night she dreamed of the glad old time when her father was in it with her, and when, although they might not speak from morning to night, their souls kept talking across crowd and counters, and each was always aware of the other's supporting presence.
Longing, however, is not necessarily pain--it may, indeed, be intensest bliss; and, if Mary longed for the freedom of the country, it was not to be miserable that she could not have it.

Her mere thought of it was to her a greater delight than the presence of all its joys is to many who desire them the most.

That such things, and the possibility of such sensations from them, should be in the world, was enough to make Mary jubilant.

But, then, she was at peace with her conscience, and had her heart full of loving duty.