She could not look back and believe that she had not dreamed a dream of all the fears gone by and that they held.
This--this was true--the beauty of these days, the love of them, the generous deeds, the sweet courtesies, and gentle words spoken.

This beauteous woman dwelling in her husband's heart, giving him all joy of life and love, ruling queenly and gracious in his house, bearing him noble children, and tending them with the very genius of tenderness and wisdom.
But in Mistress Anne herself life had never been strong; she was of the fibre of her mother, who had died in youth, crushed by its cruel weight, and to her, living had been so great and terrible a thing.

There had not been given to her the will to battle with the Fate that fell to her, the brain to reason and disentangle problems, or the power to set them aside.
So while her Grace of Osmonde seemed but to gain greater state and beauty in her ripening, her sister's frail body grew more frail, and seemed to shrink and age.

Yet her face put on a strange worn sweetness, and her soft, dull eyes had a look almost like a saint's who looks at heaven.

She prayed much, and did many charitable works both in town and country.