and no tears to wet it withal.'

"I wiped my eyes and grew calmer when I saw the wild brightness of her
eye; and dreading another nervous attack, I did my best to quiet both
her and myself. The day passed on without further reference to any
present griefs; she showed me her little conservatory, with a few rare
flowers in it, which she had reared with much care, and led me over
the pleasantest paths in the grounds and groves attached to the house.
In one of these groves, at some distance from the house itself, was a
little cleared space, and in the centre of that a small, a very small
mound.

"I knew at once what it was. There slept the child I had heard of. So
had been broken the dearest tie Mary had felt binding her to life. She
stood with me a moment, looking at the mound with a steadfast look,
and then putting back her hair from her forehead, as if she tried to
remember something, she smiled sadly, and said in a broken voice,

"'You see I cannot shed one tear, even on my child's grave.' I led her
gently away among the old trees and quiet paths, and we sat in the
warm July shadows till the sun went down.

"You may guess how thankful I was to see at last, as we turned
homeward, the tears slowly falling over her face and dropping on her
dress, as she walked on, evidently unconscious of the blessed relief.
'Like music on my heart' sunk these tears, for I knew that with them
would come the coolness, 'like a welcoming' over her burning pulse,
and I carefully abstained from saying a word that would interrupt the
feelings rather than thoughts which now agitated her. We returned to
the house; tea was served silently, for even the domestics hardly
spoke above a whisper; and then we sat in the soft moonlight and
looked on the sleeping scene before us. The summer sounds of rural
life had long died away, and nothing but the untiring chirp of the
tree-toad was to be heard. The melancholy monotony of the scene hushed
Mary's spirit to a quiet she had not for a long time known, and at
last she became conscious of having wept freely.

"'I have wept, thank God! that shows I am human. Now ask me all about
what you want to know. I think I can talk about it. Mr. Gardner? Oh,
he is gone--he is gone a great deal, you know; his business leads him
continually away from home, and that leaves me, of course, very
dull--very. Shouldn't you think it ought to, Susan dear?'

"Thus incoherently she began; but the first step taken, and secure of