But another heavy sorrow, to one at least of the number, soon followed.  One wild, stormy morning in March, when the letters were, as usual, brought in at breakfast-time, Sophy quickly looked up for the welcome letter, with its firm, manly superscription, which regularly appeared twice or thrice a-week.  There was one with the usual postmark, but in a different handwriting, and addressed not to her, but to Mr. Brooke.  Sophy’s misgivings were awakened at once, and on seeing her father’s expression as he hurriedly glanced through the letter, she forgot her usual self-control, and exclaimed in agitated tones, “O papa, what is it?” But his only reply was to lead her from the room, signing to his wife to follow.

Sophy did not appear again that day, and the atmosphere of gloom seemed again to descend over the house.  Lucy waited long alone, not liking to intrude upon the family distress, till Stella at last returned, still hysterically sobbing.

“They say ‘troubles never come singly,’” she said, “and I’m sure it’s true.  Poor Sophy!  Mr. Langton has been killed by the upsetting of his carriage.  The horse ran away, and he fell on his head, and never spoke again.  Poor Sophy is almost insensible.  I don’t believe she understands yet what has happened.  Oh, what will she do?”

Lucy’s heart was repeating the same question.  All her sympathies were called forth by so crushing a sorrow, and as she could do nothing else for her cousin, she prayed earnestly that He who could, would bind up the broken heart.

Sophy remained for two days in her own room, and then came down again to join the family circle, evidently trying her best to avoid any outward demonstration of sorrow, though her deadly paleness, and eyes which looked as if they never closed, told how acutely she was suffering.  She was not of a nature to encourage or even bear sympathy, and almost resented any instance of special consideration which seemed to spring from pity for her great sorrow.

It was only when shut up in her own room that she gave way to the bursts of agonized feeling which, to some extent, relieved the constant pressure upon her heart.  When in the family, she seemed to seek constant employment, not in the light reading in which she had been accustomed to indulge, but in books requiring much more thought, and even some effort to master them.  Lucy’s class-books were called into requisition, and her drawing was resumed, though she now shrank from touching the disused piano.  She had a good deal of artistic talent; and had art ever been placed before her as an ennobling pursuit, she might have attained very considerable excellence in some of its departments.  But hitherto she had confined herself to the execution of a few graceful trifles, since her drawing-lessons had been given up on leaving school.  Now, however, she seemed to have taken a fresh start, and copied studies and practised touches indefatigably, without speaking or moving for hours.