t; but she had not forgotten to make the Squire's
life pleasant to him also. Newly-wedded lovers in the fair
honeymoon-stage of existence could not have been fonder of each other
than the middle-aged Squire and his somewhat faded wife. His loving
eyes had never seen Time's changes in Pamela Tempest's pretty face, the
lessening brightness of the eyes, the duller tints of the complexion,
the loss of youth's glow and glory. To him she had always appeared the
most beautiful woman in the world.

And now the fondly-indulged wife could do nothing but lie on her sofa
and shed a rain of incessant tears, and drink strong tea, which had
lost its power to comfort or exhilarate. She would see no one. She
could not even be roused to interest herself in the mourning, though,
with a handsome widow, Pauline thought that ought to be all important.

"There are so many styles of widows' caps now, ma'am. You really ought
to see them, and choose for yourself," urged Pauline, an honest young
Englishwoman, who had begun life as Polly, but whom Mrs. Tempest had
elevated into Pauline.

"What does it matter, Pauline? Take anything you like. _He_ will not be
there to see."

Here the ready tears flowed afresh. That was the bitterest of all. That
she should look nice in her mourning, and Edward not be there to praise
her. In her feebleness she could not imagine life without him. She
would hear his step at her door surely, his manly voice in the
corridor. She would awake from this awful dream, in which he was not,
and find him, and fall into his arms, and sob out her grief upon his
breast, and tell him all she had suffered.

That was the dominant feeling in this weak soul. He could not be gone
for ever.

Yet the truth came back upon her in hideous distinctness every now and
then--came back suddenly and awfully, like the swift revelation of a
desolate plague-stricken scene under a lightning flash. He was gone. He
was lying in his coffin, in the dear old Tudor hall where they had sat
so cosily. Those dismal reiterated strokes of the funeral-bell meant
that his burial was at hand. They were moving the coffin already,
perhaps. His place knew him no more.

She tottered to the darkened window, lifted the edge of the blind, and
looked out. The funeral train was moving slowly along the carriage
sweep, through the winding shrubberied road. How long, and black, and
solemnly splendid the procession looked. Everybody had loved and
respected him. It was