monotonous life had been very sweet to her, but her husband had been the dearest part of her life. She had taken little trouble to express her love for him, quite willing that he should take it

omewhat faded wife. His loving eyes had never seen Time’s changes in Pamela Tempest’s pretty face, the lessening brightness of the eyes, th

strong tea, which had lost its power to comfort or exhilarate. She would see no one. She could not even be roused

them, and choose for yourself,” urged Pauline, an honest young Englishwoman,

e? Take anything you like. H

her feebleness she could not imagine life without him. She would hear his step at her door surely, his manly voice in the corridor. She would awake fr

ing in this weak soul. He

lague-stricken scene under a lightning flash. He was gone. He was lying in his coffin, in the dear old Tudor hall where they had sat so cosily. Those d

iage sweep, through the winding shrubberied road. How long, and black, and solemnly splendid the procession looked. Everybody had lov

he ejaculated. “Who c

dor porch for the first time after her happy honeymoon, when she was in t

sobbed; “how cruelly shor

ould they say to each other? They could only cry together. Violet shut herself in her room, and refused to see anyone, except patient Miss McCroke, who was always bringing her cups of tea, or basins of

nd alone, and think of

uld have said, if she could ha

after the funeral, and contrived to see Miss M

unhappy I am about her. I can’t get her face out of my thoughts, as I saw it th

id Miss McCroke; “but perhaps it m

s ought to be roused; that much indulgenc

“she would see me, I know. We

,” said the governess, “a

ticular den, and was not a bit lik

ng ugliness, whereon brown and red storks disported themselves on a dull green ground. The high-art pape

intoxicated. The broad mantelpiece presented a confusion of photographs, cups and saucers, violet jars, and Dresden shepherdesses. Over the quaint old Venetian glass dangled Vixen’s first trophy, the fox’s brush, tied with a scarlet ribbon. There were no birds, or squirrels, or do

up the blind, an

ask her to co

a dear,” s

the kind, and it was infinitely terrible to him. It seemed to him a long time before Vixen appeared, and then the door opened, and a slim black figure came in, a white fixed face looked at him piteously, with tearless eyes made big by a great

nds and drew her gently to a

re for you — my mother, my aunt, and cousin”— Violet gave a faint shiver —“al

ood,” Violet sa

of her dead father. She saw nothing but that one awful figure. They had laid him in his grave by this time. The cold cruel earth had fallen upon him and hidden him

she asked presently, withou

ral. Everybody was there — rich

” she said. “I know ho

e governess to leave her pupil. Roderick was glad at her departure, That substanti

ongue. She sat looking at the ground, and was du

your sorrow?” he said. “Surely you can

o speech. The hazel eyes sho

self that,” she said, “you have

not,

ur engagement — that you were goi

uld have told you an arrant falsehood. I am not enga

d Vixen, with a weary air. “Papa is dead, and trifles like that can’

, Vixen?” asked Rorie, very pleased to get her thou

said you were engaged, and tha

t. You may take that for a first principle in social science. I am not engage

t a sore thing to think of her old playfellow as Lady Mabel’s affianced husband — but it mattered nothing now. The larger grief had swallowed up all

t yourself up in your room and abandon yourself to grief, you will make

e is not a thing I look at that doesn’t speak to me of him. The dogs, the horses. I almost hate them for re

a! How does she

I can’t cry. I am like the dogs. If I did not restrain myself with all my might I should howl. I should lik

t alone in the world. You hav

course. But she is only like a lay-fi

e your mamma is g

house with four walls and a roof, I suppose.

heart was rent by this dull silent grief; but he could do nothing except sit

, followed by a maid carrying a

t has been quite too much for her. She was almost hysterical. But she’s better now, poor dear. And now we’ll all have some tea. Bring the ta

affliction. It sends out its gushes of warmth and brightness, its gay little arrowy flames that appear and disappear like elves dancing their midnight waltzes on a

its border of high-art tiles, illuminated with the story of “Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” after quaintly mediaeval designs, by Mr. Stacey Marks. Miss McCroke poured out the tea in the quaint old red and blue Worcest

ixen, I might contrive to come there too, by-and-by. We co

l ever ride again,” answe

wful ride? Roderick hated hi

ously for the next two years,” said Miss McCroke. “She is much

to give my mind to latitude and longitude, and fractions, and d

” cried Roderick earnest

t’s

rfect woman nobly planned, &c. Be any

being perfect,” said Miss McCroke severely. “

here is a great deal too much perfection in this

of faultiness on your sid

. But it’s

angers sounding in the distance, ever so far away. Argus nestled closer and closer at her knee, and she patted his bi

nto brief oblivion of her griefs. But Vixen was not so to be beguiled. She was with them, but not of them. Her haggard eyes stared at t