The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

The daffodils were breaking into rippling waves in the orchard behind the cottage, a nightingale had been heard among the shrubs, but Adela took no heed of such things. Time was when she had enjoyed the country; indeed, the furnishing of the cottage had afforded her one of her few pleasures of recent years, but now, like Gallio, she cared for none of these things, for she was engrossed in her own woes and miseries. In a measure she was better, was benefiting by the regular hours and simple food. She did not lie awake so long at nights, but her face was pale and drawn, and there was just the suspicion of a purple shadow under her eyes. Above all, she could not throw off the fear of impending disaster--that dread of nameless trouble which is far worse than trouble itself. This feeling was with her day and night.

In truth, she had enough to worry about. The more she thought over her situation the more desperate did it seem. She had time to look her affairs in the face, nor did she flinch from the ordeal. Her assets were the furniture of her cottage and flat, and a certain amount of jewellery, which would not realise anything like what it cost. Adela had never spent much on personal adornment. She was almost sorry now she had not. If everything were disposed of she might manage to scrape together some ten thousand pounds to meet her creditors.