beside that of Catherine
Harper in the family vault; the portrait still smiled, but on an empty
bed. There was no separation now.

At Kingcombe Holm the house had awakened from its sleep of mourning;
the shutters were opened, and the sunshine came in familiarly on the
familiar rooms--where was missed the presence of him who had abided
there for threescore years and ten. But what were they? Counted only as
"labour and sorrow"--they had all passed away, and he was gone.

The family met--a large table circle. They looked melancholy, all
in their weeds, but otherwise were as usual. A certain gravity and
under-tone in speaking alone remained. Mary had again begun to busy
herself over her housekeeping; and Eulalie, looking prettier than ever
in her black dress, was listening with satisfaction to the Reverend
Mr. Thorpe, a worthy, simple young man, who had come at once to pay the
family of his affianced the respect of attending the funeral, and
to plan another ceremony, when the decent term of mourning should be
expired.

Major Harper, now recovering something of his old elasticity of
manner, took the place at the foot of the breakfast-table, whence
Mary, presiding as usual, cast over to him glances sometimes of pride,
sometimes of doubtful curiosity, as if speculating on what sort of a
ruler the future head of the house would be.

A very courteous and graceful one, most surely!--to judge by the way in
which he was doing the agreeable to his sister-in-law. Quite harmlessly,
only it seemed as necessary for Major Harper to warm himself in the fair
looks of some woman or other, as for a drenched butterfly to dry its
wings in the sunshine. He was indeed a poor helpless human butterfly,
not made for cloudy weather, storm, or night!

But he fluttered in vain; Agatha took no notice of him whatsoever. Her
whole nature had deepened down to other things--things far beneath the
shallow ken of Major Harper.

During this week, when the numerous duties of the brothers of the family
left its womenkind nearly alone, shut up in the house of mourning, with
nothing outwardly to do or to think of beyond the fold of crape or a
gown, or the make of a bonnet--Agatha had learnt strange secrets. They
were not of Death, but of Love.

She had seen very little of her husband. Either by necessity or design,
he had been almost constantly away; at Thornhurst, arranging business
for Miss Valery, who had gone home; sometimes at Kingcombe, in his
own