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new of him, this poor orphan should not have feared to trust him entirely. And there is nothing that binds heart to heart, of lovers or friends, so quickly and so safely, as to trust and be trusted in time of trouble. "Did she tell you any more, John? Anything of her circumstances?" "No. But from something Mrs. Tod let fall, I fear"--and he vainly tried to disguise his extreme satisfaction--"that she will be left with little or nothing." "Poor Miss March!" "Why call her poor? She is not a woman to be pitied, but to be honoured. You would have thought so, had you seen her this morning. So gentle--so wise--so brave. Phineas,"--and I could see his lips tremble--"that was the kind of woman Solomon meant, when he said, 'Her price was above rubies.'" "I think so too. I doubt not that when she marries Ursula March will be 'a crown to her husband.'" My words, or the half sigh that accompanied them--I could not help it--seemed to startle John, but he made no remark. Nor did we recur to the subject again that day. Two days after, our little company followed the coffin out of the woodbine porch--where we had last said good-bye to poor Mr. March--across the few yards of common, to the churchyard, scarcely larger than a cottage garden, where, at long intervals, the few Enderley dead were laid. A small procession--the daughter first, supported by good Mrs. Tod, then John Halifax and I. So we buried him--the stranger who, at this time, and henceforth, seemed even, as John had expressed it, "our dead," our own. We followed the orphan home. She had walked firmly, and stood by the grave-side motionless, her hood drawn over her face. But when we came back to Rose Cottage door, and she gave a quick, startled glance up at the familiar window, we saw Mrs. Tod take her, unresisting, into her motherly arms--then we knew how it would be. "Come away," said John, in a smothered voice--and we came away. All that day we sat in our parlour--Mr. March's parlour that had been--where, through the no longer darkened casement, the unwonted sun poured in. We tried to settle to our ordinary ways, and feel as if this were like all other days--our old sunshiny days at Enderley. But it would not do. Some imperceptible but great change had taken place. It seemed a year since that Saturday afternoon, when we were drinking tea so merrily under the apple-tree in the field. We heard no more from Miss March that day. The nex
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