hem
again. Then with an effort she sat upright, and looked at us all
around.

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" moaned Mrs. Tod, clasping her, and sobbing over
her like a child. "Cry, do cry!"

"I CAN'T," she said, and lay down again.

We stood awed, watching that poor, pale face, on every line of which
was written stunned, motionless, impassive grief. For John--two
minutes of such a gaze as his might in a man's heart do the work of
years.

"She must be roused," he said at last. "She MUST cry. Mrs. Tod, take
her up-stairs. Let her look at her father."

The word effected what he desired; what almost her life demanded. She
clung round Mrs. Tod's neck in torrents of weeping.

"Now, Phineas, let us go away."

And he went, walking almost like one blindfold, straight out of the
house, I following him.

CHAPTER XIV

"I am quite certain, Mrs. Tod, that it would be much better for her;
and, if she consents, it shall be so," said John, decisively.

We three were consulting, the morning after the death, on a plan which
he and I had already settled between ourselves, namely, that we should
leave our portion of the cottage entirely at Miss March's disposal,
while we inhabited hers--save that locked and silent chamber wherein
there was no complaining, no suffering now.

Either John's decision, or Mrs. Tod's reasoning, was successful; we
received a message to the effect that Miss March would not refuse our
"kindness." So we vacated; and all that long Sunday we sat in the
parlour lately our neighbour's, heard the rain come down, and the
church bells ring; the wind blowing autumn gales, and shaking all the
windows, even that of the room overhead. It sounded awful THERE. We
were very glad the poor young orphan was away.

On the Monday morning we heard going up-stairs the heavy footsteps that
every one at some time or other has shuddered at; then the hammering.
Mrs. Tod came in, and told us that no one--not even his daughter--could
be allowed to look at what had been "poor Mr. March," any more. All
with him was ended.

"The funeral is to be soon. I wonder what she will do then, poor
thing!"

John made me no answer.

"Is she left well provided for, do you think?"

"It is impossible to say."

His answers were terse and brief enough, but I could not help talking
about the poor young creature, and wondering if she had any relative or
friend to come to her in this sad time.

"She said--do you remember, when she w