But she could pray for him; she would pray for him now.

Yes; it was God's cross, and she would bear it.

He would right her if He thought fit; and if not, what matter?
Was she not born to sorrow?
Should she complain if another drop, and that the bitterest of all, was added to the cup?
And bear her cross she did, about with her, coming in, and going out, for many a weary day.

There was no change in her habits or demeanour; she was never listless for a moment in her school; she was more gay and amusing than ever, when she gathered her little ones around her for a story: but still there was the unseen burden, grinding her heart slowly, till she felt as if every footstep was stained with a drop of her heart's blood....

Why not?
It would be the sooner over.
Then, at times came that strange woman's pleasure in martyrdom, the secret pride of suffering unjustly: but even that, after a while, she cast away from her, as a snare, and tried to believe that she deserved all her sorrow--deserved it, that is, in the real honest sense of the word; that she had worked it out, and earned it, and brought it on herself--how, she knew not, but longed and strove to know.