She cleared a space upon her dressing-table, lighted a third candle, a fourth, making a little illumination; then from her wardrobe she brought an old desk, and unlocked it solemnly with a key that always hangs upon her watch-chain.  The desk was full of treasures,—­letters, flowers, ends of ribbon, all neatly labelled.  She opened a little case and placed in my hands the portrait of a young man.

I hardly knew how to take it.  “It is beautiful,” I said; “what a handsome face!” Then the veil of silence and old age fell from her heart; she told me the whole tale.  Nothing new, of course.  She had loved, and—­strange to say!—­the man had done likewise; they were engaged, but because his family was not equal to hers in birth, her brother-in-law, my grandfather, would not hear of the match, and obliged her to break it off.  Yet another sin to add to his score!

“I think,” said I, “that you should have married him, all the same.”

The old woman blew her nose, rose, and kissed me.

“You are the first that ever told me so,” she said; “I think so, too.”

It was past midnight when I left her, and I must confess that my own eyes were not dry.

“Is he still alive?” I asked, as I reached the door.

The old woman smiled.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I shall know in good time; please God we shall soon meet again in a better land.”

I lay awake a long time in the night, marvelling at her constancy and her faith.  But then I wept to think how many women, even as she, have held one only flower in their hands, clung to it still when colour and scent were gone, refusing to pluck another; wept, too, to think how many such as she are buoyed up by a hope I cannot share.  I wonder what it feels like, this implicit faith in an after life!  It must make a difference, even in love.  Perhaps we who believe in one life only cling with the greater passion to what we love, seeing that, once lost, we have no hope of re-possession.

Well, it’s a sad world.  But a funny one, too.  I was quite shy of meeting Aunt Caroline again this morning, lest the remembrance of what she had told me over-night should make her feel ill at ease; lest, in fact, she had repented of her confidence.  And I stood quite a while outside the breakfast-room door, like a fool.  But as I entered, her beaded cap was bobbing over an uplifted dish-cover.

“Oh, good morning, Milly!” she said.  “No, sister, it’s not Upton’s fault.  The bacon’s beautiful, only cook can’t cut a rasher.”

And again I was in my common dilemma; I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Good-bye, sweetest; take care of yourself.

LETTER VII.

Graysmill, August 20th.

Good evening, Mrs. Norris.  I am in a very good temper,—­and you?  (N.B.  I had an extra letter this morning; somebody spoils me.)