petty, factual things of no essential
import, which left her mystic omniscience of him unimpaired.

She looked at his eyes, and thought pitifully: 'These eyes cannot see
that I uncover him.' Then she looked again at his breast, which heaved
in shallow respirations. And at the moment he exhaled a sigh, so softly
delicate and gentle that it might have been the sigh of an infant
sinking to sleep. She put her ear quickly to the still breast, as to a
sea-shell, and listened intently, and caught no rumour of life there.
Startled, she glanced at the jaw, which had dropped, and then at Ethel
dozing on the sofa.

The room was filled for her with the majestic sound of trumpets, loud,
sustained, and thrilling, but heard only by the soul; a noble and
triumphant fanfare announcing the awful advent of those forces which are
beyond the earthly sense. John's body lay suddenly deserted and
residual; that deceitful brain, and that lying tongue, and that
murderous hand had already begun to decay; and the informing fragment of
eternal and universal energy was gone to its next manifestation and its
next task, unconscious, irresponsible, and unchanged. The ineptitude of
human judgments had been once more emphasised, and the great excellence
of charity.

'Ethel,' said Leonora timorously, waking with a touch the young and
beautiful girl whose flushed cheek was pressed against the cushion of
the sofa. 'He's gone.... Call Fred.'

CHAPTER XI

THE REFUSAL

Fifteen months after John's death, and the inquest on his body, and the
clandestine funeral, Leonora sat alone one evening in the garden of the
house at Hillport. She wore a black dress trimmed with jet; a narrow
band of white muslin clasped her neck, and from her shoulders hung a
long thin antique gold chain, once the ornament of Aunt Hannah. Her head
was uncovered, and the mild breeze which stirred the new leaves of the
poplars moved also the stray locks of her hair. Her calm and mature
beauty was unchanged; it was a common remark in the town that during the
past year she had looked handsomer than ever, more content, radiant, and
serene. 'And it's not surprising, either!' people added. The homestead
appeared to be as of old. Carpenter was feeding Prince in the stable;
Bran lay huge and benign at the feet of his mistress; the borders of the
lawn were vivid with bloom; and within the house Bessie still ruled the
kitchen. No luxury was abated, and no custom altered. Time apparently