omanly-looking in the dignity
of her great grief, which, girl as she was, and young men as we were,
seemed to be to her a shield transcending all worldly "proprieties."

As she rose, and we shook hands, in a silence only broken by the rustle
of her black dress, not one of us thought--surely the most evil-minded
gossip could not have dared to think--that there was anything strange
in her receiving us here. We began to talk of common things--not THE
thing. She seemed to have fought through the worst of her trouble, and
to have put it back into those deep quiet chambers where all griefs go;
never forgotten, never removed, but sealed up in silence, as it should
be. Perhaps, too--for let us not exact more from Nature than Nature
grants--the wide, wide difference in character, temperament, and
sympathies between Miss March and her father unconsciously made his
loss less a heart-loss, total and irremediable, than one of mere habit
and instinctive feeling, which, the first shock over, would insensibly
heal. Besides, she was young--young in life, in hope, in body, and
soul; and youth, though it grieves passionately, cannot for ever grieve.

I saw, and rejoiced to see, that Miss March was in some degree herself
again; at least, so much of her old self as was right, natural, and
good for her to be.

She and John conversed a good deal. Her manner to him was easy and
natural, as to a friend who deserved and possessed her warm gratitude:
his was more constrained. Gradually, however, this wore away; there
was something in her which, piercing all disguises, went at once to the
heart of things. She seemed to hold in her hand the touchstone of
truth.

He asked--no, I believe _I_ asked her, how long she intended staying at
Enderley?

"I can hardly tell. Once I understood that my cousin Richard Brithwood
was left my guardian. This my fa--this was to have been altered, I
believe. I wish it had been. You know Norton Bury, Mr. Halifax?"

"I live there."

"Indeed!"--with some surprise. "Then you are probably acquainted with
my cousin and his wife?"

"No; but I have seen them."

John gave these answers without lifting his eyes.

"Will you tell me candidly--for I know nothing of her, and it is rather
important that I should learn--what sort of person is Lady Caroline?"

This frank question, put directly, and guarded by the battery of those
innocent, girlish eyes, was a very hard question to be answered; for
Norton Bury