ly for a moment. Dear, dear papa, and all
of us, have always had such confidence in you!" Mr Wentworth was seated,
very disconsolate, in his study when this appeal came to him: he was
rather sick of the world and most things in it; a sense of wrong
eclipsed the sunshine for the moment, and obscured the skies; but it was
comforting to be appealed to--to have his assistance and his protection
sought once more. He took his hat immediately and went up the sunny
road, on which there was scarcely a passenger visible, to the closed-up
house, which stood so gloomy and irresponsive in the sunshine. Mr
Wodehouse had not been a man likely to attract any profound love in his
lifetime, or sense of loss when he was gone; but yet it was possible to
think, with the kindly, half-conscious delusion of nature, that had _he_
been living, he would have known better; and the Curate went into the
darkened drawing-room, where all the shutters were closed, except those
of the little window in the corner, where Lucy's work-table stood, and
where a little muffled sunshine stole in through the blind. Everything
was in terribly good order in the room. The two sisters had been living
in their own apartments, taking their forlorn meals in the little
parlour which communicated with their sleeping chambers, during this
week of darkness; and nobody had come into the drawing-room except the
stealthy housemaid, who contemplated herself and her new mourning for an
hour at a stretch in the great mirror without any interruption, while
she made "tidy" the furniture which nobody now disturbed. Into this
sombre apartment Miss Wodehouse came gliding, like a gentle ghost, in
her black gown. She too, like John and the housemaid and everybody
about, walked and talked under her breath. There was now no man in the
house entitled to disturb those proprieties with which a female
household naturally hedges round all the great incidents of life; and
the affairs of the family were all carried on in a whisper, in
accordance with the solemnity of the occasion--a circumstance which had
naturally called the ghost of a smile to the Curate's countenance as he
followed John up-stairs. Miss Wodehouse herself, though she was pale,
and spent half her time, poor soul! in weeping, and had, besides, living
encumbrances to trouble her helpless path, did not look amiss in her
black gown. She came in gliding without any noise, but with a little
expectation in her gentle countenance. She wa