on."

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Henry heard the fate of
Madeline. By four o'clock he was on his way back to Boston. The
expression of his face as he sits in the car is not that which might be
expected under the circumstances. It is not that of a man crushed by a
hopeless calamity, but rather of one sorely stricken indeed, but still
resolute, supported by some strong determination which is not without
hope.

Before leaving Newville he called on Mrs. Brand, who still lived in the
same house. His interview with her was very painful. The sight of him set
her into vehement weeping, and it was long before he could get her to
talk. In the injustice of her sorrow, she reproached him almost bitterly
for not marrying Madeline, instead of going off and leaving her a victim
to Cordis. It was rather hard for him to be reproached in this way, but
he did not think of saying anything in self-justification. He was ready
to take blame upon himself.' He remembered no more now how she had
rejected, rebuffed, and dismissed him. He told himself that he had
cruelly deserted her, and hung his head before the mother's reproaches.

The room in which they sat was the same in which he had waited that
morning of the picnic, while in his presence she had put the finishing
touches to her toilet. There, above the table, hung against the wall the
selfsame mirror that on that morning had given back the picture of a girl
in white, with crimson braid about her neck and wrists, and a red feather
in the hat so jauntily perched above the low forehead--altogether a
maiden exceedingly to be desired. Perhaps, somewhere, she was standing
before a mirror at that moment. But what sort of a flush is it upon her
cheeks? What sort of a look is it in her eyes? What is this fell shadow
that has passed upon her face?

By the time Henry was ready to leave the poor mother had ceased her
upbraidings, and had yielded quite to the sense of a sympathy, founded in
a loss as great as her own, which his presence gave her. Re was the only
one in all the world from whom she could have accepted sympathy, and in
her lonely desolation it was very sweet. And at the last, when, as he was
about to go, her grief burst forth afresh, he put his arm around her and
drew her head to his shoulder, and tenderly soothed her, and stroked the
thin grey hair, till at last the long, shuddering sobs grew a little
calmer. It was natural that he should be the one to comfort her.