irls, around me. But, after
all, what are father, mother, boys, girls, to me? Father never _was_ any
thing, I will do myself that justice, but at this moment of sore
disappointment as I lean my forehead on the letter outspread on the
table before me, and dim its sentences with tears, I _belittle_ even the
boys. No doubt that by-and-by I shall derive a little solace from the
thought of their company; that when they come I shall even be inveigled
into some sort of hilarity with them; but at present, "No."

There are some days on which all ills gather together as at a meeting.
This is one. Barbara is prostrated by a violent headache, and is in such
thorough physical pain that even she cannot sympathize with me. Mr.
Musgrave never makes his now daily appearance--he comes, as I jubilantly
notice, as regularly as the postman--until late in the afternoon. All
day, therefore, I must refrain myself and be silent. And I am never one
for brooding with private dumbness over my woes. I much prefer to air
them by expression and complaint. About noon it strikes me that, _faute
de mieux_, I will go and see Mrs. Huntley, tell her _suddenly_ that
Roger is not coming back, and see if she looks vexed or confused or
grieved. Accordingly, soon after luncheon, I set off in the
pony-carriage. It is a quiet sultry-looking unclouded day. One uniform
livery of mist clothes sky and earth, dimming the glories of the dying
leaves, and making them look dull and sodden. Every thing has a drenched
air: each crimson bramble-leaf is clothed in rain-drops, and yet it is
not raining. The air is thick and heavy, and one swallows it like
something solid, but it is not raining: in fact, it is an English fine
day.

Under the delusive idea that it is warm, or at least not cold, I have
protected my face with no veil, my hands with no mittens; so that, long
before I reach the shelter of the Portugal laurels that warmly hem in
and border Mrs. Huntley's little graveled sweep, the end of my nose
feels like an icy promontory at a great distance from me, and my hands
do not feel at all. Mrs. Huntley _is_ at home. Wise woman! I knew that
she would be. I suppose that I follow on the footsteps of the butler
more quickly than is usual, for, as the door opens, and before I can get
a view of the inmate or inmates, I hear a hurried noise of scrambling,
as of some one suddenly jumping up. For a little airy woman who looks as
if one could blow her away--puff!--like a morsel o