present interests were but
from her outward not her inward heart, he had never argued the point
with her, never consulted her on his destination. He had talked only
to his father of his alteration of purpose, and had at least paid her
the compliment of not trying to make her profess that she was gratified
by the change. In minor matters, he depended on her as much as ever;
but Harry was naturally his chief companion, and the prime of his full
and perfect confidence had departed, partly in the step from boy to
man, but more from the sense that he was not fulfilling the soldiership
he had dreamt of with her, and that he had once led her to think his
talents otherwise dedicated. She had few fears for his steadiness, but
she had some for his health, and he was something taken away from
her--a brightness had faded from his image.

And this marriage--with every effort at rejoicing and certainty of
Mary's present bliss and probability of future happiness, it was the
loss of a sister, and not the gain of a brother, and Mr. Cheviot did
his utmost to render the absence of repining a great effort of
unselfishness. And even with her father, her possession of Tom's
half-revealed secret seemed an impairing of absolute confidence; she
could not but hope that her father did her brother injustice, and in
her tenderness towards them both this was a new and painful sensation.
Her manner was bright and quaint as ever, her sayings perhaps less
edged than usual, because the pain at her heart made her guard her
tongue; but she had begun to feel middle-aged, and strangely lonely.
Richard, though always a comfort, would not have entered into her
troubles; Harry, in his atmosphere of sailor on shore, had nothing of
the confidant, and engrossed his father; Mary and Aubrey were both gone
from her, and Gertrude was still a child. She had never so longed after
Margaret or Norman. But at least her corner in the Minster, her table
at home with her Bible and Prayer-Book, were still the same, and
witnessed many an outpouring of her anxiety, many a confession of the
words or gestures that she had felt to have been petulant, whether
others had so viewed them or not.

CHAPTER XIX

Long among them was seen a maiden, who waited and wondered,
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things;
Fair was she, and young, but alas! before her extended,
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life.--Evangeline.