torn to pieces, but that he did not know how to look out
into the world. It was as though a man should be suddenly called upon
to live without hands or even arms. He was helpless, and knew himself
to be helpless. Hitherto he had never specially acknowledged to
himself that his wife was necessary to him as a component part of his
life. Though he had loved her dearly, and had in all things consulted
her welfare and happiness, he had at times been inclined to think
that in the exuberance of her spirits she had been a trouble
rather than a support to him. But now it was as though all outside
appliances were taken away from him. There was no one of whom he
could ask a question.

For it may be said of this man that, though throughout his life he
had had many Honourable and Right Honourable friends, and that though
he had entertained guests by the score, and though he had achieved
for himself the respect of all good men and the thorough admiration
of some few who knew him, he had hardly made for himself a single
intimate friend--except that one who had now passed away from him. To
her he had been able to say what he thought, even though she would
occasionally ridicule him while he was declaring his feelings. But
there had been no other human soul to whom he could open himself.
There were one or two whom he loved, and perhaps liked; but his
loving and his liking had been exclusively political. He had so
habituated himself to devote his mind and his heart to the service of
his country, that he had almost risen above or sunk below humanity.
But she, who had been essentially human, had been a link between him
and the world.

There were his three children, the youngest of whom was now nearly
nineteen, and they surely were links! At the first moment of his
bereavement they were felt to be hardly more than burdens. A more
loving father there was not in England, but nature had made him so
undemonstrative that as yet they had hardly known his love. In all
their joys and in all their troubles, in all their desires and all
their disappointments, they had ever gone to their mother. She had
been conversant with everything about them, from the boys' bills
and the girl's gloves to the innermost turn in the heart and the
disposition of each. She had known with the utmost accuracy the
nature of the scrapes into which Lord Silverbridge had precipitated
himself, and had known also how probable it was that Lord Gerald
would do the same. The re