had to endure, and sickness and sorrow too--troubles
inevitable--besides some of those other troubles, which are the harder
to bear because they are not inevitable. But still, she had had her
compensations, and it was of these she thought as she took her last
leave of the little place. She went to the end of the garden first,
closely followed by Beth, and looked through the thin hedge out across
the field. She seemed to be seeing things which were farther away than
Beth's eyes could reach. Then she went to an old garden seat, touched it
tenderly, and stood looking down at it for some seconds. Many a summer
evening she had sat there at work while her husband read to her. It was
early spring, and the snowdrops and crocuses were out. She gathered a
little bunch of them. When she had made the tour of the garden, she
returned to the house, and went into every room, Beth following her
faithfully, at a safe distance. In the nursery she stood some little
time looking round at the bare walls, and seeming to listen expectantly.
No doubt she heard ghostly echoes of the patter of children's feet, the
ring of children's voices. As she turned to go she pressed her
handkerchief to her eyes. In her own room she lingered still longer,
going from one piece of furniture to another, and laying her hand on
each. It was handsome furniture, such as a lady should have about her,
and every piece represented a longer or shorter period of self-denial,
both on her own part and on her husband's, and a proportionately keen
joy in the acquisition of it. She remembered so well when the wardrobe
came home, and the dressing-table too, and the mahogany drawers. The
furniture was to follow to the new home, and each piece would still have
its own history, but, once it was moved from its accustomed place, new
associations would have to be formed, and that was what she dreaded. She
could picture the old home deserted, and herself yearning for it, and
for the old days; but she could not imagine a new home or a new chapter
of life with any great interest or pleasure in it, anything, in fact,
but anxiety.

When at last she left the house, she was quite overcome to find that a
little crowd of friends of every degree had collected to wish her good
speed. She went from one to the other, shaking hands, and answering
their words in kindly wise. Mary Lynch gave Beth a currant-cake, and
lifted her into the coach, though she could quite well have got in by
herself. The