Dolly followed close; she could not well keep beside them; and felt in
that hour more thoroughly lonely perhaps than at any other of her life
before or after. Rupert was a relief; and yet so the shame was
increased. She stepped along through moonlight and shadow, feeling that
light was gone out of her pathway of life for ever, as far as this
world was concerned. What was left, when her father was lost to
her?--her father!--and not by death; _that_ would not have been to lose
him utterly; but now his very identity was gone. Her father, whom all
her life she had loved; manly, frank, able, active, taking the lead in
every society where she had seen him, making other men do his bidding
always, until the passion of gaining and the lust of drink got hold of
him! Was it the same, that figure in front of her, leaning on
somebody's arm and glad to lean, and going with lame, unsteady gait
whither he was led, so like the way his mental course had been lately?
Was that her father? The bitterness of Dolly's feeling it is impossible
to put into words. Tears could bring no relief, and nature did not
summon them to the impossible service. The fire at her heart would have
burnt them up; for there was a strange passion of resistance and sense
of wrong mixed with Dolly's bitter pain. The way was not short, and it
seemed threefold the length it was; every step was so hard, and the
crowd of thoughts was so disproportionately great.

They were rather ruminating thoughts of grief and pain, than
considerative of what was to be done. For the first, the thing was to
get Mr. Copley home. Dolly did not look beyond that. She was glad to
find herself arrived at St. Mark's again; and presently they were all
three in the gondola. Mr. Copley leaned in a corner, laid his head
against a cushion, and slept, or seemed to sleep. The other two were as
silent; but I think both felt at the moment as if they would never
sleep again. Rupert's face was in shadow; he watched Dolly's face which
was in light. She forgot it could be watched; her eyes stared into the
moonshine, not seeing it, or looking through it; the sweet face was so
very grave that the watcher felt his heart ache. Not the gentle gravity
of young maidenhood, looking into the vague light; but the anxious,
searching gaze of older life looking into the vague darkness. Rupert
did not dare speak to her, though he longed. What would he not have
given for the right and the power to comfort! But he knew he