She would envy the birds as they seemed to be worked into madness by the winds which still were not strong enough to drive them from their purposes.

To linger there among the rocks seemed to be the only delight left to her in life,--except that intense delight which a mother has in loving her child.

She herself read but little, and never put a hand upon the piano.

But she had a faculty of sitting and thinking, of brooding over her own past years and dreaming of her daughter's future life, which never deserted her.

With her the days were doubtless very sad, but it cannot truly be said that they were dull or tedious.
And there was a sparkle of humour about her too, which would sometimes shine the brightest when there was no one by her to appreciate it.