them with a little air of resolution. "I am
indeed. I shall gradually learn not to think of it,
and then it will wear itself out."

Wear itself out! Alas! There was something
busy at that work already: thoughts in
myriads, seething and bubbling night and day
—thoughts of fearful self-reproach, as this
business had been the work of her own folly—
thoughts of lost happiness, sheer hopelessness,
and a cloud of despair in the west, coming
on slowly, though now no bigger than a man's
hand. With such flerce contests the little
delicate frame was wearing, though slowly. The
sheath was fretting away. And, besides, there
was the struggle of concealment—which was,
indeed, the only purpose that kept her up—not
to hurt those kind, miserable, interested faces
that were turned to her a hundred times in
the day.

The suffering was, indeed, almost divided.
On Mrs. Manuel and the others the blow had
fallen so tremendously, the crash had been so
bewildering, so unexpected, so wholesale and
complete, that they did not even dream of looking
back, or think of a remedy. They might
as well have been looking back after an
avalanche, to where their house once stood. It
could hardly be called hopelessness, for they had
never dreamed for a moment of hoping. The
whole thing was too plain. And now all they
thought of was saving what was left to them.

What coldness and almost rawness in the
house! As though there was a dusty lonely
hearth in every room, and the fires were never
to be lighted again. The terrible gauntness of
life, that sets in after the death of any one that
has been loved, seemed to be present. Yet
Violet, with a cheerfulness that absolutely made
the hearts of others ache, went hither and
thither with what seemed a newly-found zest
for the practical duties of life. No one, however,
could see how it would end, as yet.

As the Eastport season was now over, and the
town itself almost emptied, this little catastrophe
came in seasonably enough for the natives. Even
in the matter of news it was believed that
Providence tempered the wind; but this sending so
precious a store did, indeed, seem almost a
special deliverance. The good folks were grateful,
and the "witnesses" to the scene—unhappily
too few in proportion to the wants of the
population—were held even in a competitive esteem.
Even in communities of greater importance such
a business rarely takes place. It was canvassed
in many shapes, with eagerness, humour, anger;
but in most instances with satisfaction.

Young Brett—as indeed might be expected—
showed out in bright and faithful colours. More
honest and serviceable devotion could not be
conceived. He took it grievously to heart, yet
with divided emotions; for he could not bring
himself to believe much ill of his friend, whom
he clung to so loyally. He charitably held to
there being foreign influences at work, and to
Fermor's being in some sort the victim of
destiny. Having arrived, through many painful
stages of reasoning, at this conclusion, he was at
liberty to indulge his sympathy. How his heart
was wrung for that suffering family! How,
with a deeply dejected face, he came there when
he thought he could, and as often as he could,
with decency! And when admitted he could have
wished himself away, he found himself so dull
and clumsy. He would have given worlds to
have been allowed to show his deep deep
feelings in some bold, substantial shape; for what
were words, which, after all, he did not possess,
and could not buy. He thought faintly and
remotely of the gun, so satisfactory in the instance
of men. He had always found it the fullest and
happiest exponent. Here he saw it was wholly
out of place, but the idea in his mind was as of
something analogous to the gun. This lay on
his mind, and the honest child laboured much,
and with real distress, at what he called seeing
his way, and saw, at last, that he must bound
his wishes by mere sympathy.

For Pauline he felt most, and was so earnest
that she should employ him in some way, that
she felt for him, and did give him, some trifling
commission. He would have been proud to
have been used, as errand-boy even. His good
terrier face, full of sympathy, brought a sort of
comfort to the house.

Someway he seemed more suited to the
present tone of affairs than John Hanbury, who
came too, and tried hard to make himself useful
and acceptable. Yet he felt—and it was felt in
the house, felt very unjustly too—that he was
associated with the late business. His honest
face, full of unbounded sympathy, kept alive
what all were anxious to put away, like the
vacant chair of a lost relative, or a picture.
Such a place should always be filled up speedily,
and the picture removed. He could not bring
himself to see it in this way, and was, in fact,
longing and praying for some opening in which
he could prove himself devoted.

Those weeks were indeed an awful time. The
weary look in Violet's face almost shocked him.
About the twentieth evening of the twentieth
day Hanbury found her alone in the drawing-
room, and with the best intentions in the world
began to offer some earnest good advice, but
which he handled clumsily.

It was to the strain of "going away," of
"keeping up," of "having a duty to oneself,
and the friends who loved her so," with the
other platitudes, about as useful and practical as
though one were to say in the case of a broken
blood vessel, "Do make an effort, and the bleeding
will stop." He spoke with a trembling
voice. "For God's sake do, dearest Miss
Violet. It is killing us all to see the way you
look. For all our sakes, do, I implore you; and
there are some of us who would die for you."

Violet listened a little vacantly at first, passed
her hand over her face, tossed her head, and
laughed a faint laugh. "Why do you talk of
dying?" she said; "pray don't mention the
word. We have wonderful dispositions. I will
get mamma to go somewhere. I should like a
pleasant watering-place, with plenty of people;
something gay, for this is growing dull. So dull,"