her. "I would have been here before if I could," he
said.

"I knew it." She trembled so much that he drew her nearer, supporting
her as tenderly as if he were her son, though his face above her was
unmoved as ever.

"She died this morning," Mrs. Middleton repeated. She hid her face
suddenly and burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, Godfrey! she was hurt
so! she was hurt so! Oh my darling!"

"We could not wish her to linger in pain," he said softly.

"No, no. But only this morning, and I feel as if I had been alone for
years!"

Still, through her weeping, she clung to him. His sympathy made a faint
glimmer of light in the darkness, and her sad eyes turned to it.

CHAPTER LIII.

AFTERWARD.

There is little more to write. Four years, with their varying seasons,
their endless procession of events, their multitude of joys and sorrows,
have passed since Sissy died. Her place in the world, which seemed so
blank and strange in its first vacancy, is closed up and lost in the
crowding occupations of our ordinary life. She is not forgotten, but she
has passed out of the light of common day into the quiet world of years
gone by, where there is neither crowd nor haste, but soft shadows and
shadowy sunshine, and time for every tender memory and thought. Even
Aunt Harriet's sorrow is patient and subdued, and she sees her darling's
face, with other long-lost faces, softened as in a gentle dream. She
looks back to the past with no pain of longing. At seventy-eight she
believes that she is nearer to those she loves by going forward yet a
little farther. Nor are these last days sad, for in her loneliness
Godfrey Hammond persuaded her to come to him, and she is happy in her
place by his fireside. He is all that is left to her, and she is wrapped
up in him. Nothing is good enough for Godfrey, and he says, with a
smile, that she would make the planets revolve round him if she could.
It is very possible that if she had her will she might attempt some
little rearrangement of that kind. Her only fear is lest she should ever
be a burden to him. But that will never be. Godfrey likes her delicate,
old-fashioned ways and words, and is glad to see the kind old face which
smiled on him long ago when he was a lad lighted up with gentle pleasure
in his presence now. When he bids her good-night he knows that she will
pray before she lies down, and he feels as if his home and he were the
better for those simple prayers uttered night and