She had no strength or wish to walk now, as of old.

She never passed beyond the entrance-gates, save on Sunday forenoons, when she went slowly to the little church of St.Croix, and listened drearily, as if he was speaking an unknown tongue, to Father Francis, preaching patience and long-suffering to the end.
She was lying under a gnarled old apple-tree, the flickering shadow of the leaves coming and going in her face, and the sunshine glinting through her golden hair.

She looked up, with a faint smile, at her father's approach.

She loved him very much still, but not as she had loved him once; the power to love any one in that old trustful, devoted way seemed gone forever.
"My pale daughter," he said, looking down at her sadly, "what shall I do to bring back your lost roses!" "Am I pale ?" she said, indifferently.

"What does it matter?
I feel well enough." "I don't think you do.