and
keep down any expression of trouble and pain. He began to breathe more
freely too; but Emily felt that he would not meet any eyes that day, and
she looked at him and his children many times.

In the middle of the sermon a dark cloud came over, and before the
service was finished it poured with rain. Emily was not going back to
her brother's house; she had only the short distance to traverse that
led to her own, and she did not intend to speak to the Mortimers; so she
withdrew into the porch, to wait there till they should have passed out
by the little door they generally used. They scarcely ever had out a
carriage on Sunday, for John preserved many of his father's habits,
without, in all cases, holding the opinions which had led to them.

That day, however, the servants brought a carriage, and as the little
girls were carried to it under umbrellas they caught sight of Emily, and
to her annoyance, she presently saw John advancing to her. She had
already begun to walk when he met her, and, sheltering her with his
umbrella, proposed to take her home in the carriage; but she declined;
she felt the oppression and sadness of his manner, and knew he did not
want her company. "I would much rather walk," she declared.

"Would you?" he said, and waved to the men to take the carriage on.
"Well, it is not far;" and he proceeded to conduct her. Indeed there was
nothing else for him to do, for she could not hold up her umbrella. He
gave her his arm, and for two or three minutes the wind and the rain
together made her plenty of occupation; but when they got under the
shelter of the cliff-like rock near her house she felt the silence
oppressive, and thinking that nothing to the purpose, nothing touching
on either his thoughts or her own, would be acceptable, she said, by way
of saying something,--

"And so Valentine is gone! Has he written from Melcombe to you, John?"

"No," John answered, and added, after another short silence, "I feel the
loss of his company; it leaves me the more alone."

Then, to her surprise, he began at once to speak of this much-loved old
man, and related two or three little evidences of his kindness and
charity that she liked to hear, and that it evidently was a relief to
him to tell. She was just the kind of woman unconsciously to draw forth
confidences, and to reward them. Something poignant in his feeling was
rather set forth than concealed by his sober, self-restrained ways and
quiet words; it su