How was it she had first discovered the want of harmony
between them? How was it she had first learnt to appreciate
the gulf that separated the experiences of her first years,
from the pure, peaceful life she was leading now? She could
hardly have told; no one had revealed it to her, no one had
spoken of it; but in a thousand unconsidered ways--in talk, in
books, in the unconscious influences of her every-day
surroundings, she had come to understand the true meaning of
her father's life, and to know that the memory of these early
days, that she had found so bright and happy, was something
never to be spoken of, to be hidden away--a disgrace to her,
even, perhaps. Aunt Barbara never would let her talk of them,
would have blotted them out, if possible; she had wondered why
at first--she understood well enough now, and resented the
enforced silence. She only cherished the thought of them, and
of her father the more; she only clung to her old love for him
the more desperately, because it must be in secret; and she
longed at times, with a sad, inexpressible yearning, for
something of the old brightness that had died out one mournful
night nearly eight years ago, when she had talked with her
father for the last time.
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