tonous life, of
something to hope or to fear.

Her greatest pleasure was in Miss Charlecote's return. The long watch
over her old friend was over. Honor had shared his wife's cares,
comforted and supported her in her sorrow, and had not left her till the
move from her parsonage was made, and she was settled among her own
relations. Much as Honor had longed to be with Phoebe, the Savilles had
nearer claims, and she could not part with them while there was any need
of her. Indeed, Mr. Saville, as once the husband of Sarah Charlecote,
the brother-in-law of Humfrey, and her own friend and adviser, was much
esteemed and greatly missed. She felt as if her own generation were
passing away, when she returned to see the hatchment upon Beauchamp, and
to hear of the widow's failing health. Knowing how closely Phoebe was
attending her mother, Honor drove to Beauchamp the first day after her
return, and had not crossed the hall before the slender black figure was
in her arms.

Friends seem as though they must meet to know one another again, and
begin afresh, after one of the great sorrows of life has fallen on either
side, and especially when it is a first grief, a first taste of that cup
of which all must drink. As much of the child as could pass from
Phoebe's sweet, simple nature had passed in those hours that had made her
the protector and nurse of her mother, and though her open eyes were
limpid and happy as before, and the contour of the rounded cheek and lip
as youthful and innocent, yet the soft gravity of the countenance was
deepened, and there was a pensiveness on the brow, as though life had
begun to unfold more difficulties than pleasures.

And Honor Charlecote? That ruddy golden hair, once Owen's pride, was
mingled with many a silvery thread, and folded smoothly on a forehead
paler, older, but calmer than once it had been. Sorrow and desertion had
cut deeply, and worn down the fair comeliness of heathful middle age; but
something of compensation there was in the less anxious eye, from which
had passed a certain restless, strained expression; and if the face were
more habitually sad, it was more peaceful. She did not love less those
whom she 'had seen,' but He whom she 'had not seen' had become her rest
and her reliance, and in her year of loneliness and darkness, a trust, a
support, a confiding joy had sprung up, such as she had before believed
in, but never experienced. 'Her Best, her All;' those had been w