hat he was
indeed to see her, Brian would have given worlds to have postponed the
meeting. He was well accustomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, but
from meeting such sorrow as that in the Raeburns' house he shrunk back
feeling his insufficiency. Besides, what words were delicate enough to
convey all that had passed in that death scene? How could he dare to
attempt in speech all that the dying mother would fain have had conveyed
to her child? And then his own love! Would not that be the greatest
difficulty of all? Feeling her grief as he did, could he yet modify his
manner to suit that of a mere outsider--almost a stranger? He was very
diffident; though longing to see Erica, he would yet have given anything
to be able to transfer his work to his father. This, however, was of
course impossible.

Strange though it might seem, he--the most unsuitable of all men in his
own eyes--was the man singled out to bear this message, to go to the
death-visited household. He went about his afternoon work in a sort of
steady, mechanical manner, the outward veil of his inward agitation.
About four o'clock he was free to go to Guilford Terrace.

He was shown into the little sitting room; it was the room in which
Mrs. Raeburn had died, and the mere sight of the outer surroundings, the
well-worn furniture, the book-lined walls made the whole scene vividly
present to him. The room was empty, there was a blazing fire but no
other light, for the blinds were down, and even the winter twilight shut
out. Brian sat down and waited. Presently the door opened, he looked up
and saw Erica approaching him. She was taller than she had been when he
last saw her, and now grief had given her a peculiar dignity which made
her much more like her father. Every shade of color had left her
face, her eyes wee full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightly
reddened, but apparently rather from sleeplessness than from tears, the
whole face was so altered that a mere casual acquaintance would hardly
have recognized it, except by the unchanged waves of short auburn hair
which still formed the setting as it were to a picture lovely even now.
Only one thing was unchanged, and that was the frank, unconventional
manner. Even in her grief she could not be quite like other people.

"It is very good of you to let me see you," said Brian, "you are sure
you are doing right; it will not be too much for you today."

"There is no great difference in says, I think,"