Lord Herbert came home to bury his little one, and all that was left behind of her was borne to the church of St. Cadocus, the parish church of Raglan, and there laid beside the marquis’s father and mother.  He remained with them a fortnight, and his presence was much needed to lighten the heavy gloom that had settled over both his wife and his father.

As if it were not enough to bury the bodies of the departed, there are many, and the marquis and his daughter-in-law were of the number, who in a sense seek to bury their souls as well, making a graveyard of their own spirits, and laying the stone of silence over the memory of the dead.  Such never speak of them but when compelled, and then almost as if to utter their names were an act of impiety.  Not In Memoriam but In Oblivionem should be the inscription upon the tombs they raise.  The memory that forsakes the sunlight, like the fishes in the underground river, loses its eyes; the cloud of its grief carries no rainbow; behind the veil of its twin-future burns no lamp fringing its edges with the light of hope.  I can better, however, understand the hopelessness of the hopeless than their calmness along with it.  Surely they must be upheld by the presence within them of that very immortality, against whose aurora they shut to their doors, then mourn as if there were no such thing.

Radiant as she was by nature, lady Margaret, when sorrow came, could do little towards her own support.  The marquis said to himself, ’I am growing old, and cannot smile at grief so well as once on a day.  Sorrow is a hawk more fell than I had thought.’  The name of little Molly was never mentioned between them.  But sudden floods of tears were the signs of the mother’s remembrance; and the outbreak of ambushed sighs, which he would make haste to attribute to the gout, the signs of the grandfather’s.

Dorothy, too, belonged in tendency to the class of the unspeaking.  Her nature was not a bright one.  Her spirit’s day was evenly, softly lucent, like one of those clouded calm grey mornings of summer, which seem more likely to end in rain than sunshine.

Lord Herbert was of a very different temperament.  He had hope enough in his one single nature to serve the whole castle, if only it could have been shared.  The veil between him and the future glowed as if on fire with mere radiance, and about to vanish in flame.  It was not that he more than one of the rest imagined he could see through it.  For him it was enough that beyond it lay the luminous.  His eyes, to those that looked on him, were lighted with its reflex.

Such as he, are, by those who love them not, misjudged as shallow.  Depth to some is indicated by gloom, and affection by a persistent brooding—­as if there were no homage to the past of love save sighs and tears.  When they meet a man whose eyes shine, whose step is light, on whose lips hovers a smile, they shake their heads and say, ’There goes one who has never loved, and who therefore knows not