seat under the fir trees to
be alone with her sorrow. The grassy slope was slippery now with recent
rain, and though the clouds had rolled off eastward, the sunshine was
pale and watery, coming in fitful gleams through the veil of thin misty
vapour which hung over the sky.

Joyce often came to this seat; it was associated with her father, and
she loved to be there and give full vent to the sorrow which, for the
sake of others, she had learned to hide. Miss Falconer and Charlotte had
paid one visit of condolence after the funeral. They were surprised, and
I may even say disappointed, to see Joyce so calm, and Miss Falconer
thought how different it would be with Charlotte when she was taken from
her; she would be entirely prostrate and unfit for exertion.

It is well for the world that some people are fit for exertion, even in
the midst of crushing sorrow. It would be a melancholy thing if all
grief-stricken ones fed on their grief in solitude, and shut themselves
up from doing their best, to lighten the burden of others.

Miss Falconer would not have had cause to lament Joyce's unnatural calm,
if she had seen her as she sat upon the old bench, in the dim, pale
light of the October day, when, amidst the hush of all around, her sobs
and low cry of "Oh! father--father," throbbed in the quiet air.

They had been so much to each other; they had understood each other so
perfectly. The beautiful tie between father and daughter, which when it
exists is one of the most beautiful in the world, seemed severed,
cruelly severed, and Joyce was desolate. She was scarcely eighteen, and
the freshness and gladness of her life hitherto had been remarkable.
Now, all unawares, the storm had swept over her sky, and, when it
passed, left her lonely indeed.

Mrs. Falconer was one of those people who bury their dead out of sight,
and cannot bear the mention of their names. Ralph, setting his face
bravely to meet his duty, did not speak of his father as Joyce would
have loved to speak of him, and it was only to Piers, that Joyce could
sometimes ease her burdened heart, by talking of her father. Just as on
the summer morning, now looking so far off, left in the golden haze of
joy and glad young life, Joyce had seen her lame brother at the gate of
the plantation, so she saw him now.

She made a great effort to control her weeping, and said:

"It is very slippery on the turf to-day; wait, dear, and I will come
down to help you." But Piers sa