ef to her own spirits, that she was sorry on
her own account, as well as her mother's, when every possible order had
been given, every box packed, and nothing was to be done, but to sit
opposite to each other, on each side of the fire, in the idleness which
precedes candle-light. Her mother leant back in silence, and she watched
her with an anxious gaze. She feared to say anything of sympathy
with what she supposed her feeling, lest she should make her weep. An
indifferent speech would be out of place even if Henrietta herself could
have made it, and yet to remain silent was to allow melancholy thoughts
to prey upon her. So thought the daughter, longing at the same time that
her persuasions were all unsaid.

"Come here, my dear child," said her mother presently, and Henrietta
almost started at the calmness of the voice, and the serenity of the
tranquil countenance. She crossed to her mother, and sat down on a
low footstool, leaning against her. "You are very much afraid for me,"
continued Mrs. Langford, as she remarked upon the anxious expression of
her face, far different from her own, "but you need not fear, it is all
well with me; it would be wrong not to be thankful for those who are not
really lost to me as well as for those who were given to me here."

All Henrietta's consideration for her mother could not prevent her from
bursting into tears. "O mamma, I did not know it would be so like going
away from dear grandmamma."

"Try to feel the truth, my dear, that our being near to her depends on
whether we are in our duty or not."

"Yes, yes, but this place is so full of her! I do so love it! I did not
know it till now!"

"Yes, we must always love it, my dear child; but we are going to our
home, Henrietta, to your father's home in life and death, and it must be
good for us to be there. With your grandfather, who has wished for us.
Knight Sutton is our true home, the one where it is right for us to be."

Henrietta still wept bitterly, and strange it was that it should be she
who stood in need of consolation, for the fulfilment of her own most
ardent wish, and from the very person to whom it was the greatest trial.
It was not, however, self-reproach that caused her tears, that her
mother's calmness prevented her from feeling, but only attachment to the
place she was about to leave, and the recollections, which she accused
herself of having slighted. Her mother, who had made up her mind to do
what was right, found