ur dead, the strength of
this condition was not as yet realized. John had shut himself in his
room, and the grandmother went about her household duties silently
weeping and trying to put down the angry thoughts which would arise
whenever she remembered how stubbornly her daughter-in-law had refused
to leave Martha with her, and make her trip to London alone. She knew
it was "well with the child," but Oh the bitter strength of regrets
that strain and sicken,

Yearning for love that the veil of Death endears.

Jane sat silent, tearless, almost motionless beside her dead daughter.
Now and then John came and tried to comfort the wretched woman, but in
her deepest grief, there was a tender motherly strain which he had not
thought of and knew not how to answer. "Her little feet! Her little
feet, John! I never let them wander alone or stray even in Hatton
streets without a helper and guide. O John, what hand will lead them
upward and back to God? Those little feet!"

"Her angel would be with her and she would know the way through the
constellations. Together they would pass swift as thought from earth to
heaven. Martha loved God. They who love God will find their way back to
Him, dear Jane."

The next day there was no factory bell. Nearly the whole village was
massed in Hatton churchyard, and towards sunset the crowd made a little
lane for the small white coffin to the open grave waiting for it. None
of the women of the family were present. They had made their parting in
the familiar room that seemed, even at that distracting hour, full of
Martha's dear presence. But Jane, sitting afterwards at its open window,
heard the soft singing of those who went to the grave mouth with the
child, and when a little later John and Harry returned together, she
knew that _all had been_.

She did not go to meet them, but John came to her. "Let me help you,
dear one," he said tenderly. "One is here who will give you comfort."

"None can comfort me. Who is here?"

"The new curate. He said words at the graveside I shall never forget. He
filled them with such glory that I could not help taking comfort."

"O John, what did he say?"

"After the service was over, and the people dispersing, he stood talking
to Harry and myself, and then he walked up the hill with us. I asked him
for your sake."

"I will come down in half an hour, John."

"Then I will come and help you."

And in half an hour this craver after some hope and comfort w