Then a strain of human sadness—all the more ineffable that it sounded strangely foreign to the poor genteel comedy—entered into it. Madam Neville’s children, that she had borne and spoiled in sheer weakness, died one after another. Their mother, who would have been quickly consoled—like a child to whom another toy is substituted for that which has been removed—only that she was soon spent by a little watching and weeping, fell into a rapid consumption before she could throw off her grief, and followed her children. The world looked on as at the crushing of a butterfly, or the introducing of a tragic pathos into the soulless life of a fairy. But there was a soul in this stunted human fairy, while a butterfly was the ancients’ emblem of immortality; so good Master Arundel comforted himself, as he strove with all his might to introduce a supernatural element which should give a new aspect to the apparently pitiless destruction, and cause it to be, after all, a miracle of divine mercy. No question but Master Neville felt the double bereavement—the very shock of it strewed silver threads in his black hair. But he was one of those men who, with an outward frankness of address, keep their inner lives as sealed books from their neighbours—almost, it would seem, from the men themselves. He made no sign as he sat alone in his empty hall, drank his flagon of wine or tankard of ale, and professed to busy himself with his steward’s accounts, the flies for his fishing, or the play-books he was fond of studying. He rode, and hunted, and visited his neighbours much as usual. There might be a shade of greater reserve and sternness in his manner, and he was in no haste to replace the madam who was gone by a new madam to preside over the old court; but he was still a man who trolled his song, took his wild jest, and rather made a parade of his half-boisterous, half-sardonic philosophy. But he always spared kindly notice for Roy and Reine—made them be seen to, had them about him, playing with them, pulling their long ears, teaching them tricks, praising and rewarding them with tit-bits—only not plaguing them so much as of old—not more than the creatures liked now. He certainly preferred the small encumbrances to any fox-hound or lurcher in his kennel, which had brought him credit, or secured him a prey. He would sooner suffer inconvenience himself than have Roy and Reine disturbed; he would shrug his broad shoulders and take another seat, to the great disgust of his old housekeeper, when he found the two nestling together, fast asleep, in the depths of his great arm-chair. The vicar’s eyes used to moisten when he came upon the tall strong man and his pets. “I suppose their utter unconsciousness, together with their fondness, doth soothe the soreness and the void in his heart,” said Master Arundel to himself; “and their entire dependence on him makes an appeal to the tenderness that is at the bottom of Master Neville’s imperious, boastful nature.”