w, and sees a new and
strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that the
insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idol
shall be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to the
sentence he cannot avert and scarce can bear.

Happy Mrs. Pryor! She was still praying, unconscious that the summer sun
hung above the hills, when her child softly woke in her arms. No
piteous, unconscious moaning--sound which so wastes our strength that,
even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps
away the oath--preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy followed.
The first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged from
this world, and already permitted to stray at times into realms foreign
to the living. Caroline evidently remembered with clearness what had
happened.

"Mamma, I have slept _so_ well. I only dreamed and woke twice."

Mrs. Pryor rose with a start, that her daughter might not see the joyful
tears called into her eyes by that affectionate word "mamma," and the
welcome assurance that followed it.

For many days the mother dared rejoice only with trembling. That first
revival seemed like the flicker of a dying lamp. If the flame streamed
up bright one moment, the next it sank dim in the socket. Exhaustion
followed close on excitement.

There was always a touching endeavour to _appear_ better, but too often
ability refused to second will; too often the attempt to bear up failed.
The effort to eat, to talk, to look cheerful, was unsuccessful. Many an
hour passed during which Mrs. Pryor feared that the chords of life could
never more be strengthened, though the time of their breaking might be
deferred.

During this space the mother and daughter seemed left almost alone in
the neighbourhood. It was the close of August; the weather was
fine--that is to say, it was very dry and very dusty, for an arid wind
had been blowing from the east this month past; very cloudless, too,
though a pale haze, stationary in the atmosphere, seemed to rob of all
depth of tone the blue of heaven, of all freshness the verdure of earth,
and of all glow the light of day. Almost every family in Briarfield was
absent on an excursion. Miss Keeldar and her friends were at the
seaside; so were Mrs. Yorke's household. Mr. Hall and Louis Moore,
between whom a spontaneous intimacy seemed to have arisen--the result,
probably, of harmony of views and temperament--were gone "up nort