clung to him, closely,
dependently; she let herself be taken care of, ruled and guided, as if
with him she found helplessness restful and submission sweet. Many a
little outward fondness, that when people have been long married
naturally drops into disuse, was revived again; he would bring her
flowers out of the garden, or new books from the town; and many a time,
when no one noticed, I have seen him stoop and press his lips upon the
faded hand, where the wedding-ring hung so loosely;--his own for so
many years, his own till the dust claimed it, that well-beloved hand!

Ay, he was right. Loss, affliction, death itself, are powerless in the
presence of such a love as theirs.

It was already the middle of July. From January to July--six months!
Our neighbours without--and there were many who felt for us--never
asked now, "Is there any news of Mr. Guy?" Even pretty Grace
Oldtower--pretty still, but youthful no longer--only lifted her eyes
inquiringly as she crossed our doorway, and dropped them again with a
hopeless sigh. She had loved us all, faithfully and well, for a great
many years.

One night, when Miss Oldtower had just gone home after staying with us
the whole day--Maud and I sat in the study by ourselves, where we
generally sat now. The father spent all his evenings up-stairs. We
could hear his step overhead as he crossed the room or opened the
window, then drew his chair back to its constant place by his wife's
bedside. Sometimes there was a faint murmur of reading or talk; then
long silence.

Maud and I sat in silence too. She had her own thoughts--I mine.
Perhaps they were often one and the same: perhaps--for youth is youth
after all--they may have diverged widely. Hers were deep, absorbed
thoughts, at any rate, travelling fast--fast as her needle travelled;
for she had imperceptibly fallen into her mother's ways and her
mother's work.

We had the lamp lit, but the windows were wide open; and through the
sultry summer night we could hear the trickle of the stream and the
rustle of the leaves in the beech-wood. We sat very still, waiting for
nothing, expecting nothing; in the dull patience which always fell upon
us about this hour--the hour before bed-time, when nothing more was to
be looked for but how best to meet another dreary day.

"Maud, was that the click of the front gate swinging?"

"No, I told Walter to lock it before he went to bed. Last night it
disturbed my mother."

Again s