candles flickering faintly
about the room in the night air that breathed in through the open windows.
The dark curtains had been drawn round the bed. It was like a catafalque
looming darkly behind. Mrs. Warrender had used every persuasion to induce
her guest to come into another room, to take something, to rest, to
remember all that remained for her to do, and not waste her strength,--all
those formulas which come naturally to the lips at such a moment. Lady
Markland only answered with that movement of her face which was intended
for a smile and a shake of her head.

At last the preparations were all complete. The night was even more
exquisite than the evening had been; it was more still, every sound
having died out of the earth except those which make up silence,--the
rustling among the branches, the whirr of unseen insects, the falling
of a leaf or a twig. The moon threw an unbroken light over the broad
fields; the sky spread out all its stars, in myriads and myriads,
faintly radiant, softened by the larger light; the air breathed a
delicate, scarcely perceptible fragrance of growing grass, moist earth,
and falling dew. How sweet, how calm, how full of natural happiness!
Through this soft atmosphere and ethereal radiance a carriage made its
way that was improvised with all the reverence and tenderness possible,
in which lay the young man, dead, cut off in the very blossom and
glory of his days, followed by another in which sat the young woman
who had been his wife. What she was thinking of who could tell? Of their
half-childish love and wooing, of the awaking of her own young soul to
trouble and disappointment, of her many dreary days and years; or of the
sudden severance, without a moment's warning, without a leave-taking, a
word, or a look? Perhaps all these things, now for a moment distinct,
now mingling confusedly together, formed the current of her thoughts.
The child, clasped in her arms, slept upon her shoulder; nature being
too strong at last for that which was beyond nature, the identification
of his childish soul with that of his mother. She was glad that he
slept, and glad to be silent, alone, the soft air blowing in her face,
the darkness encircling her like a veil.

Warrender went with this melancholy cortege, making its way slowly
across the sleeping country. He saw everything done that could be done:
the dead man laid on his own bed; the living woman, in whom he felt so
much more interest, returned to