said Erica, sitting
down on a low chair beside the fire. "I do not very much believe in
degrees in this kind of grief. I do not see why it should be ever more
or ever less. Perhaps I am wrong, it is all new to me."

She spoke in a slow, steady, low-toned voice. There was an absolute
hopelessness about her whole aspect which was terrible to see. A
moment's pause followed, then, looking up at Brian, she fancied that she
read in his face, something of hesitation, of a consciousness that he
could ill express what he wished to say, and her innate courtesy made
her even now hasten to relieve him.

"Don't be afraid of speaking," she said, a softer light coming into her
eyes. "I don't know why people shrink from meeting trouble. Even Tom
is half afraid of me. I am not changed, I am still Erica; can't you
understand how much I want every one now?

"People differ so much," said Brian, a little huskily, "and then when
one feels strongly words do not come easily."

"Do you think I would not rather have your sympathy than an oration
from any one else! You who were here to the end! You who did everything
for--for her. My father has told me very little, he was not able to, but
he told me of you, how helpful you were, how good, not like an outsider
at all!"

Evidently she clung to the comforting recollection that at least one
trustable, sympathetic person had been with her mother at the last.
Brian could only say how little he had done, how much more he would fain
have done had it been possible.

"I think you do comfort me by talking," said Erica. "And now I want you,
if you don't mind, to tell me all from the very first. I can't torture
my father by asking him, and I couldn't hear it from the landlady. But
you were here, you can tell me all. Don't be afraid of hurting me; can't
you understand, if the past were the only thing left to you, you would
want to know every tiniest detail!"

He looked searchingly into her eyes, he thought she was right. There
were no degrees to pain like hers! Besides, it was quite possible that
the lesser details of her mother's death might bring tears which would
relieve her. Very quietly, very reverently, he told her all that had
passed--she already knew that her mother had died from aneurism of the
heart--he told her how in the evening he had been summoned to her, and
from the first had known that it was hopeless, had been obliged to
tell her that the time for speech even was but short. He had or