by her mother, whose
hand she held throughout the time. Mrs. Hood lay in the same state of
semi-consciousness alternating with sleep. In the night she generally
wandered a little. But she did not seem to suffer pain.

To-night Emily could not sleep; hitherto her rest had been profound
between sunset and early morning. As she had sat through the day, so she
lay now, her eyes fixed in the same intent gaze, as on something
unfolding itself before her. When the nurses had ceased to move about,
the house was wrapped in a stillness more complete than of old, for the
clock had not been touched since the night when the weight fell. In the
room you might have heard now and then a deep sigh, such sigh as comes
from a soul overcharged.

Mrs. Baxendale allowed one day to intervene, then came again. She did
not directly speak of Wilfrid, and only when she sat in significant
silence, Emily said:

'To-morrow I shall go downstairs. Will you ask Mr. Athel to come and see
me?'

'Gladly I will. At what hour shall he come?'

'I shall be down by eleven.'

Later in the day, Mrs. Cartwright and Jessie called. Hitherto Emily had
begged that no one might be admitted save Mrs. Baxendale; she felt it
would be unkindness to refuse her friends any longer, and the visitors
came up and sat for a while with her. Both were awed by the face which
met them; they talked scarcely above a whisper, and were sadly troubled
by the necessity of keeping a watch upon their tongues.

Emily was now able to descend the stairs without difficulty. The first
sight of the little parlour cost her a renewal of her keenest suffering.
There was the couch on which his dead body had been placed; that the
chair in which he always rested after tea before going up to the
laboratory; in a little frame on the mantelpiece was his likeness, an
old one and much faded. She moved about, laying her hand on this object
and that; she took the seat by the window where she had waited each
evening, till she saw him at the gate, to rise at once and open to him.
She had not shed tears since that last day of his life, and now it was
only a passing mist that dimmed her eyes. Her sorrow was not of the kind
which so relieves itself.

She had come down early, in order to spend some time in the room before
Wilfrid's arrival. She sat in her father's chair, once more in the
attitude of motionless brooding. But her countenance was not as
self-controlled as during the past days; emotions, str