then it was only that she was lulled by the sound of the voice, not that the sense reached her mind.  But then, how go on reading to her all day, when poor Fred was left in his lonely room, to bear his own share of sorrow in solitude?  For though Mr. and Mrs. Langford, and Uncle and Aunt Roger, made him many brief kind visits, they all of them had either too much on their hands, or were unfitted by disposition to be the companions he wanted.  It was only Aunt Geoffrey who could come and sit by him, and tell him all those precious sayings of his mother in her last days, which in her subdued low voice renewed that idea of perfect peace and repose which came with the image of his mother, and seemed to still the otherwise overpowering thought that she was gone.  But in the midst the door would open, and grandmamma would come in, looking much distressed, with some such request as this—­“Beatrice, if Fred can spare you, would you just go up to poor Henrietta?  I thought she was better, and that it was as well to do it at once; so I went to ask her for one of her dresses, to send for a pattern for her mourning, and that has set her off crying to such a degree, that Elizabeth and I can do nothing with her.  I wish Geoffrey was come!”

Nothing was expressed so often through the day as this wish, and no one wished more earnestly than his wife, though, perhaps, she was the only person who did not say so a dozen times.  There was something cheering in hearing that his brother had actually set off to meet him at Allonfield; and at length Fred’s sharpened ears caught the sound of the carriage wheels, and he was come.  It seemed as if he was considered by all as their own exclusive property.  His mother had one of her quick, sudden bursts of lamentation as soon as she saw him; his brother, as usual, wanted to talk to him; Fred was above all eager for him; and it was only his father who seemed even to recollect that his wife might want him more than all.  And so she did.  Her feelings were very strong and impetuous by nature, and the loss was one of the greatest she could have sustained.  Nothing save her husband and her child was so near to her heart as her sister; and worn out as she was by long attendance, sleepless nights, and this trying day, when all seemed to rest upon her, she now completely gave way, and was no sooner alone with her husband and daughter, than her long repressed feelings relieved themselves in a flood of tears, which, though silent, were completely beyond her own control.  Now that he was come, she could, and indeed must, give way; and the more she attempted to tell him of the peacefulness of her own dear Mary, the more her tears would stream forth.  He saw how it was, and would not let her even reproach herself for her weakness, or attempt any longer to exert herself; but made her lie down on her bed, and told her that he and Queen Bee could manage very well.

Queen Bee stood there pale, still, and bewildered-looking.  She had scarcely spoken since she heard of her aunt’s death; and new as affliction was to her sunny life, scarce knew where she was, or whether this was her own dear Knight Sutton; and even her mother’s grief seemed to her almost more like a dream.