Helen Kemble felt that her cup of bitterness had been filled anew, yet the distraction of a new grief, in which there was a certain remorseful self-reproach, had the effect of blunting the sharp edge of her first sorrow.  In this new cause for dread she was compelled in some degree to forget herself.  She saw the intense solicitude of her father and mother, who had been so readily accessory to Martine’s expedition; she also saw that his mother’s heart was almost breaking under the strain of anxiety.  His incoherent words were not needed to reveal that his effort had been prompted by his love.  She was one of his watchers, patiently enduring the expressions of regret which the mother in her sharp agony could not repress.  Nichol’s last letter was now known by heart, its every word felt to be prophetic.  She had indeed been called upon to exercise courage and fortitude greater than he could manifest even in the Wilderness battle.  Although she often faltered, she did not fail in carrying out his instructions.  When at last Martine, a pallid convalescent, could sit in the shade on the piazza, she looked older by years, having, besides, the expression seen in the eyes of some women who have suffered much, and can still suffer much more.  In the matter relating to their deepest consciousness, no words had passed between them.  She felt as if she were a widow, and hoped he would understand.  His full recognition of her position, and acceptance of the fact that she did and must mourn for her lover, his complete self-abnegation, brought her a sense of peace.

The old clock on the landing of the stairway measured off the hours and days with monotonous regularity.  Some of the hours and days had been immeasurably longer than the ancient timekeeper had indicated; but in accordance with usual human experiences, they began to grow shorter.  Poignant sorrow cannot maintain its severity, or people could not live.  Vines, grasses, and flowers covered the graves in Virginia; the little cares, duties, and amenities of life began to screen at times the sorrows that were nevertheless ever present.

“Hobart,” Helen said one day in the latter part of June, “do you think you will be strong enough to attend the commemorative services next week?  You know they have been waiting for you.”

“Yes,” he replied quietly; “’and they should not have delayed them so long.  It is very sad that so many others have been added since—­since—­”

“Well, you have not been told, for we have tried to keep every depressing and disquieting influence from you.  Dr. Barnes said it was very necessary, because you had seen so much that you should try to forget.  Ah, my friend, I can never forget what you suffered for me!  Captain Nichol’s funeral sermon was preached while you were so ill.  I was not present—­I could not be.  I’ve been to see his mother often, and she understands me.  I could not have controlled my grief, and I have a horror of displaying my most sacred feelings in public.  Father and the people also wish you to be present at the general commemorative services, when our Senator will deliver a eulogy on those of our town who have fallen; but I don’t think you should go if you feel that it will have a bad effect on you.”