given way to that burst of joy!

She drew her hand across her forehead--sat down at the table--wrote the
three lines she had intended to Anne Valery, and then went her way, to
watch all night long beside her husband's father.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A night and a day had passed, and the household had grown somewhat
accustomed to the cloud that hung over it. It was but natural. How soon
do most families settle themselves after a great shock!--how easily-does
any grief become familiar and bearable! Likewise, saddest thought
of all--how seldom is any one really missed from among us, painfully
missed, for longer than a few days--a few hours!

By evening, when all Kingcombe was yet talking over the "shocking event"
at Kingcombe Holm, the "afflicted family" had subsided into its usual
ways--a little more grave perhaps, but still composed. Some voluble
fresh grief arose when Anne Valery came--Anne, ever foremost in entering
the house of mourning--and took her place among the daughters of the
family, ready to give sympathy, counsel, and comfort. It was all she was
strong enough to do now. The chief position in the household was still
left to Agatha.

Dr. Mason gave his directions and went away. There was nothing more to
be done or hoped for. The form which lay in the Squire's bedroom might
lie there for days, weeks, months--without change. The old coachman and
his wife watched their master alternately; but he took little notice
of them. In every conscious moment his whole attention was fixed upon
Agatha. His eyes followed her about the room; when she talked to him he
feebly smiled. She could not imagine why this should be, but she felt
glad. It was so sweet to know herself in any way a comfort to the father
of Nathanael.

She sat for hours by the old man's bedside, trying to think of nothing
but him. What were all these worldly things, loss of fortune or youth,
or even love itself, to the spirit that lay on the verge of a closed
life--passing swiftly into eternity?

So she sat and strove to forget all that had happened, or was happening
to herself; ay, though every now and then she would start, fancying
there was a voice in the hall, or a step at the door. And she would
hesitate whether to run away and hide herself from her husband's
presence or wait and let him find her in her right place--beside his
dying father.

And then--how would he meet her? how look--how speak? Yet these
conjectures were selfish. Most likely he