ing
needed to make her fit for those angels among whom she has gone. For
me they can do nothing,--unless it be that in knowing how much she
loved me I may strive to be as she was."

"And for your happiness."

"Psha!" he exclaimed.

"You must let me do her commission, Lord Hampstead. I was to bid you
remember that God in His goodness has ordained that the dead after
awhile shall be remembered only with a softened sorrow. I was to tell
you that as a man you should give your thoughts to other things. It
is not from myself;--it is from her."

"She did not know. She did not understand. As regards good and evil
she was, to my eyes, perfect;--perfect as she was in beauty, in
grace, and feminine tenderness. But the character of others she had
not learned to read. But I need not trouble you as to that, Mrs.
Roden. You have been good to her as though you were her mother, and
I will love you for it while I live." Then he was going away; but
he turned again to ask some question as to the funeral. Might he do
it. Mrs. Roden shook her head. "But I shall be there?" To this she
assented, but explained to him that Zachary Fay would admit of no
interference with that which he considered to be his own privilege
and his own duty.

Lord Hampstead had driven himself over from Hendon Hall, and had
driven fast. When he left Mrs. Roden's house the groom was driving
the dog-cart up and down Paradise Row, waiting for his master. But
the master walked on out of the Row, forgetting altogether the horse
and the cart and the man, not knowing whither he was going.

The blow had come, and though it had been fully expected, though he
had known well that it was coming, it struck him now as hard, almost
harder than if it had not been expected. It seemed to himself that
he was unable to endure his sorrow now because he had been already
weakened by such a load of sorrow. Because he had grieved so much, he
could not now bear this further grief. As he walked on he beat his
hands about, unconscious that he was in the midst of men and women
who were gazing at him in the streets. There was nothing left to
him,--nothing, nothing, nothing! He felt that if he could rid himself
of his titles, rid himself of his wealth, rid himself of the very
clothes upon his back, it would be better for him, so that he
might not seem to himself to think that comfort could be found
in externals. "Marion," he said, over and over again, in little
whispered words, but loud eno