hearing behind her voices
she did not love, raised herself from her knees, and, without lifting
her eyes, crept from the room and away to her own.

"Follow her, George," said his father, in a loud, eager whisper.
"You've got to comfort her now. That's your business, George. There's
your chance!"

The last words he called from the bottom of the stair, as George sped
up after her. "Mary! Mary, dear," he called as he ran.

But Mary had the instinct--it was hardly more--to quicken her pace, and
lock the door of her room the moment she entered. As she turned from
it, her eye fell upon her watch--where it lay, silent and disfigured,
on her dressing-table; and, with the sight, the last words of her
father came back to her. She fell again on her knees with a fresh burst
of weeping, and, while the foolish youth was knocking unheard at her
door, cried, with a strange mixture of agony and comfort, "O my Father
in heaven, give me back William Marston!" Never in his life had she
thought of her father by his name; but death, while it made him dearer
than ever, set him away from her so, that she began to see him in his
larger individuality, as a man before the God of men, a son before the
Father of many sons: Death turns a man's sons and daughters into his
brothers and sisters. And while she kneeled, and, with exhausted heart,
let her brain go on working of itself, as it seemed, came a dreamy
vision of the Saviour with his disciples about him, reasoning with them
that they should not give way to grief. "Let not your heart be
troubled," he seemed to be saying, "although I die, and go out of your
sight. It is all well. Take my word for it."

She rose, wiped her eyes, looked up, said, "I will try, Lord," and,
going down, called Beenie, and sent her to ask Mr. Turnbull to speak
with her. She knew her father's ideas, and must do her endeavor to have
the funeral as simple as possible. It was a relief to have something,
anything, to do in his name.

Mr. Turnbull came, and the coarse man was kind. It went not a little
against the grain with him to order what he called a pauper's funeral
for the junior partner in the firm; but, more desirous than ever to
conciliate Mary, he promised all that she wished.

"Marston was but a poor-spirited fellow," he said to his wife when he
told her; "the thing is a disgrace to the shop, but it's fit enough for
him.--It will be so much money saved," he added in self-consolation,
while his wife turned up