--nay, sad, but it appeared to be that sadness
which is received as inevitable, and is quite distinct from either
anger or resentment.

Neither Guy nor Edwin, nor the father were present. When John's voice
was heard in the hall, Miss Silver had just risen to retire with Maud.

"Good-night, for I shall not come down-stairs again," she said hastily.

"Good-night," the mother answered in the same whisper--rose, kissed her
kindly, and let her go.

When Edwin and his father appeared, they too looked remarkably
grave--as grave as if they had known by intuition all the trouble in
the house. Of course, no one referred to it. The mother merely
noticed how late they were, and how tired they both looked. Supper
passed in silence, and then Edwin took up his candle to go to bed.

His father called him back. "Edwin, you will remember?"

"I will, father."

"Something is amiss with Edwin," said his mother, when the two younger
boys had closed the door behind them. "What did you wish him to
remember?"

Her husband's sole reply was to draw her to him with that peculiarly
tender gaze, which she knew well to be the forewarning of trouble;
trouble he could not save her from--could only help her to bear. Ursula
laid her head on his shoulder with one deep sob of long-smothered pain.

"I suppose you know all. I thought you would soon guess. Oh, John,
our happy days are over! Our children are children no more."

"But ours still, love--always will be ours."

"What of that when we can no longer make them happy? When they look
for happiness to others and not to us? My own poor boy! To think that
his mother can neither give him comfort, nor save him pain, any more."

She wept bitterly.

When she was somewhat soothed, John, making her sit down by him, but
turning a little from her, bade her tell him all that had happened
to-day. A few words explained the history of Guy's rejection and its
cause.

"She loves some one else. When I--as his mother--went and asked her
the question she confessed this."

"And what did you say?"

"What could I say? I could not blame her. I was even sorry for her.
She cried so bitterly, and begged me to forgive her. I said I did
freely, and hoped she would be happy."

"That was right. I am glad you said so. Did she tell you who he--this
lover, was?"

"No. She said she could not, until he gave her permission. That
whether they would ever be married she did not know. She knew nothin