Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket, and said:
"Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools to-morrow?"
"You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into some interest about Melville's letter.
"You can do as you like--my day is over."
"Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It is--it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you--and upon us all--that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort."
"Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your father--and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his prime, to leave me desolate!"
"You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say; "and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to take up the business of the farm."
"As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it."
"Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything he does."
"Well," she said, "I don't want to talk any more about it. I think if you will get me the yarn I will go on knitting Harry's stockings."
"Oh, yes," Joyce said; "and Piers will be so pleased to hold the skeins for you, mother."
Then she kissed her mother again and again, and whispered:
"You will come to church on Sunday, mother, won't you? It is so dull for you, sitting here day after day."
"I can do nothing else," was the reply--"nothing else. What else should I do? You are a dear, good child, Joyce. He always said so; he was always right."
There is nothing harder to meet than a grief like poor Mrs. Falconer's; or rather, I should say, there is nothing harder to meet than a grief which refuses to recognise love in the midst of anguish which hardens and, as it were, paralyzes the whole being; changes the fountain of sweetness into bitterness; making the accustomed routine of duty impossible and falling on the sufferer like a heavy pall.