kissed her, and she
seemed to consider my tears as perfectly natural; her whole
manner was soothing and sympathising. My uncle received me
kindly enough, though rather coldly even for him. I longed to
explain to Mrs. Middleton that I did not care for Henry, and
that my uncle's decision against him was not the cause of the
deep depression which I could neither struggle with nor
conceal; but how could I disclaim _that_ cause and allege no
other? Also the intimate intercourse which had been formerly
habitual between her and myself had been broken up, so that my
heart had become as a sealed book to her, and I dared not open
it again; its one dark page formed an invincible barrier to
that communion of thoughts which had been ours in bygone days.

And so days and weeks went by; I heard nothing of Henry nor of
Edward, though both were almost constantly before my mind's
eye; in this perpetual wear and tear of feeling my health
began to give way, and I grew ever, day paler and thinner.

About three months after my return to Elmsley, I was sitting
one afternoon at that library window where I mentioned once
before having often watched the sunset with Edward. The
autumnal tints were gilding the trees in the park with their
glowing hues, and the air had that wintry mildness which is
soothing though melancholy. The window was open; and, wrapped
up in a thick shawl, I was inhaling the damp moist air, and
listening to the rustle of the dried leaves which were being
swept from the gravel walk below; the low twitter of some
robin-redbreasts was in unison with the scene, and affected me
in an Unaccountable manner. My tears fell fast on the book in
my hand. This book was the "Christian Year;" that gift of
Edward, which I had thrust away in a fit of irritation about a
year ago. I had opened it again that morning, and, partly as a
kind of expiation, partly with a vague hope of awakening in
myself a new tone of feeling--something to put in the place of
that incessant review of the past, around which my thoughts
were ever revolving,--I forced myself to read a few of the
passages marked with a pencil. I had been interrupted while so
doing, but had carried away the book with me, and now again
applied myself to the same task. I read stanza after stanza
which spoke of guilt, of suffering, and of remorse; but I did
not close the book in anger as before. It was true that they
were carefully chosen, pointedly marked; but what of that? Was
I not