“This frame seems to have been made for our purpose, Grace,” and Mrs. Leconte arranged in order Gertrude with her two girls and Frances with her two boys. “It seems only a few months, instead of four years, since the wedding day. “They have good husbands and happy homes. I only wish their father...” This was so unusual that Grace looked at her mother, and Mrs. Leconte checked herself. “You are going down to the Rectory, I hope, next week; Gertrude is always anxious to have you, and August in London is very trying.” “Certainly; but on one condition, mother, that you go too; it would be such a joy to Gerty, and you must have some change.” “Perhaps I will, a little later, but I never leave London in August. I have always been very strong, and I like a... quiet time then.” “Mother,” and Mrs. Leconte turned at the passion in her daughter's voice, “why will you not allow any of us to share your remembrance and your grief? We know why you shut yourself up alone in August, and now, when there are just you and I, it hurts me that I may not be with you, if it were only to pray... or weep. Would it not be some help?” and Grace took her mother's hand, a very rare caress. “You are a good daughter, Grace,” she spoke with much difficulty, “but... God made me to be alone, and silent I was not able to tell either joy or sorrow even to your father. You spoke of weeping; do you know I've never shed a tear since I was a child--not often then. “When he died, my eyes were dry.... Oh, Grace, you are most like me: may God deliver you from a tearless grief; but it must be so with me to the end.” “Dearest mother,” said Grace, but she did not kiss her. “You are often in my thoughts, Grace,” after a long silence, “and I am concerned about you, for you have aged beyond your years. Are you... well?” “What a question, mater; you know that I have the health of a donkey--save a headache now and then that gives me an interesting pallor. You forget that I am getting to be an old maid, nearly thirty.” “Is it really that... I mean, do you not feel lonely?--it is a contrast, your sisters' lot and yours, and a woman's heart was made for love, but if it be so do not sorrow over-much... I can't explain myself--there are many in this world to love, and, at any rate... you will never know the sense of loss.” “That is the postman's ring,” and Grace made an errand to obtain the letters, and lingered a minute on the way. “Only one letter, and it's for you, mother. I think I know the handwriting.” “Of course you do; it's from Mrs. Archer, George Lennox's aunt. She is a capital correspondent, and always sends lots of news. Let me see. Oh, they've had Gertrude and her husband staying a night with them for a dinner.