The paroxysms of hysterical crying which frequently came on, and an
aversion to take necessary nourishment, very much retarded her
recovery, and prevented her regaining strength. As the acuteness of
her sorrow gradually wore itself out, the unaccustomed feelings of
weakness and depression brought on fits of fretfulness, in which all
Lucy's forbearance was called for; but she remembered how
good-naturedly her cousin had borne with her own fit of nervous
irritability, and she generally managed to soothe and pacify her, even
when she was most unreasonable, and tired out the patience of both
Sophy and Ada.

After the first few weeks had passed, the shadowy hush and solemnity
brought by death gradually passed away, and except for the deep black
crape of the dresses, and the abstinence from all gaieties, the family
life seemed to have returned to its former tone. So far as external
signs went, there was no more realizing sense of that invisible world
to which one of their number had gone--no more "looking unto" Him who
had been her support in the dark valley--than there had been before.
And when a bereavement does not draw the heart nearer to God, there is
every reason to fear that it drives it farther from Him.

But another heavy sorrow, to one at least of the number, soon
followed. One wild, stormy morning in March, when the letters were, as
usual, brought in at breakfast-time, Sophy quickly looked up for the
welcome letter, with its firm, manly superscription, which regularly
appeared twice or thrice a-week. There was one with the usual
postmark, but in a different handwriting, and addressed not to her,
but to Mr. Brooke. Sophy's misgivings were awakened at once, and on
seeing her father's expression as he hurriedly glanced through the
letter, she forgot her usual self-control, and exclaimed in agitated
tones, "O papa, what is it?" But his only reply was to lead her from
the room, signing to his wife to follow.

Sophy did not appear again that day, and the atmosphere of gloom
seemed again to descend over the house. Lucy waited long alone, not
liking to intrude upon the family distress, till Stella at last
returned, still hysterically sobbing.

"They say 'troubles never come singly,'" she said, "and I'm sure it's
true. Poor Sophy! Mr. Langton has been killed by the upsetting of his
carriage. The horse ran away, and he fell on his head, and never spoke
again. Poor Sophy is almost insensible. I don't believe she
underst