The grief of the lower orders is generally loud and violent.  Unaccustomed to restrain their feelings, Nature lifts up her voice, and tells, in tones which cannot be misunderstood, the blow which has left her desolate.  And so Mary Mathews poured forth the anguish of her soul over the parent that, but a few days before, she had wished dead, to conceal from him her guilt.  Yet now that he was gone—­that the strong tie was broken, and her conscience reproached her for having cherished for a moment the unnatural thought—­she wept as if her heart had never known a deeper sorrow.  Her brother and lover strove in vain to comfort her.  She neither saw nor heeded them, but in a stern voice bade them depart and leave her alone.

“The wilful creature!  Let her have her own way, Mr. Godfrey.  Grief like that, like the down-pouring of a thunder-shower, soon storms itself to rest.  She will be better soon.  Leave her to take care of the dead, while you and I step into the kitchen and consult together about the living.”

Godfrey, who had suffered much that day from mental excitement, felt doubly depressed by the scene he had just witnessed, and gladly obeyed.

Mathews lighted a fresh candle, and led the way into the kitchen.  The fire that had been used to prepare the evening meal was nearly out; Mathews raked the ashes together and threw a fresh billet into the grate; then reaching from a small cupboard a bottle and a glass, he drew a small table between them, and stretching his legs towards the cheering blaze he handed a glass of brandy to his companion.

“Hang it, man! don’t look so down in the mouth.  This is the best friend in time of need.  This is my way of driving out the blue devils that pinch and freeze my heart.”

Godfrey eagerly seized the proffered glass and drained it at a draught.

“Well, that’s what I call hearty!” continued the ruffian, following his example.  “There’s nothing like that for killing care.  I don’t wonder at your being low.  I feel queer myself—­devilish queer.  It is a strange thing to lose a father.  A something is gone—­a string is loosened from the heart, which we feel can never be tied again.  I wonder whether the souls gone from among us to-night are lost or saved—­or if there be a heaven or hell?”

“Pshaw!” said Godfrey, lighting his pipe, “do you believe such idle fables?”

“Why, do you see, Master Godfrey, I would fain think them false for my own sake—­mere old women’s tales.  But terrible thoughts will come into my mind; and though I seldom think of heaven, I often hear a voice from the shut up depths of my heart—­a voice that I cannot stifle.  Do not smile,” said the man gloomily, “I am in no mood to be laughed at.  Bad as I am, confound me if you are not ten times worse.”

“If you are so afraid of going to hell,” said Godfrey, sarcastically, “why do you not amend your life?  I, for my part, am troubled with no such qualms of conscience.”