The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

All's well that ends well. The days were passing evenly and pleasantly in the cottage by the river. Adela thought she had never had so much to do that was profitable and good for her, and wondered hourly how she ever endured her former mode of existence. For here she had light and life and movement, here were the thousand and one responsibilities she had hitherto laid on the shoulders of others. She did not, perhaps, realise that her new-formed happiness, her new health, her new strength, mental no less than bodily, had much to do with the present outlook. There was sheer joy in life now; the peace and comfort which came from regular hours and freedom from excitement had brought back the color to her cheeks, and the sparkle to her eyes. Even the country round seemed new country to her; the vivid green of the trees and the blending blue arch of the sky were painted in brighter and fresher colors than before.

It was irksome to feel under so great a debt to Denne, and even the cottage, simple as it was, cost money. It would be necessary to find means to keep it up. How was it to be done? It was absurd to think of turning to her former associates, for not one of them had come near her since the crash. She had not expected them, either. They did not belong to the class that turned a sympathetic ear to misfortune. Not that Adela minded; she had shrewdly suspected how it would be. She had been in London once or twice lately, and it was impossible to visit the West End without meeting some of them. They had looked at her in a surprised kind of way, and moved on with a more or less faint acknowledgment. Nor was there any sting in this treatment of her. Adela was sincerely glad to turn her back upon them all.