was almost exclusively given up to the
Morleys, and he could hear her tread on the old creaking stairs. But
now she had stolen into her own room, which communicated with his
sitting-room--a small lobby alone intervening--and there she remained so
long that he grew uneasy. He crept softly to her door and listened. He
had a fineness of hearing almost equal to his son's; but he could not
hear a sob--not a breath. At length he softly opened the door and looked
in with caution.

The girl was seated at the foot of the bed, quite still--her eyes fixed
on the ground, and her finger to her lip, just as she had placed it
there when imploring silence; so still, it might be even slumber. All
who have grieved respect grief. Waife did not like to approach her; but
he said, from his stand at the threshold: "The sun is quite bright now,
Sophy; go out for a little while, darling."

She did not look round, she did not stir; but she answered with
readiness, "Yes, presently."

So he closed the door and left her. An hour passed away; he looked in
again; there she was still--in the same place, in the same attitude.

"Sophy, dear, it is time to take your walk; go--Mrs. Morley is in front,
before my window. I have called to her to wait for you."

"Yes--presently," answered Sophy, and she did not move.

Waife was seriously alarmed. He paused a moment-then went back to his
room--took his hat and his staff--came back.

"Sophy, I should like to hobble out and breathe the air; it will do me
good. Will you give me your arm? I am still very weak."

Sophy now started--shook back her fair curls-rose-put on her bonnet, and
in less than a minute was by the old man's side. Drawing his arm fondly
into hers, they descend the stairs; they are in the garden; Mrs. Morley
comes to meet them--then George. Wife exerts himself to talk--to be
gay--to protect Sophy's abstracted silence by his own active, desultory,
erratic humour. Twice or thrice, as he leans on Sophy's arm, she draws
it still nearer to her, and presses it tenderly. She understands--she
thanks him. Hark! from some undiscovered hiding-place near the
water--Fairthorn's flute! The music fills the landscape as with a living
presence; the swans pause upon the still lake--the tame doe steals
through yonder leafless trees; and now, musing and slow, from the same
desolate coverts, comes the doe's master. The music spells them all. Guy
Darrell sees his guests where they have halted by the stone sun-d