“No; not one tear, as I live by bread,” Mrs. Holt reported truthfully. “Her face was as dry as a flint. Did ever any one know the like?” The worthy woman, who had wept copiously herself, and whose eyes and nose testified to the fact for days, did not know, had never yet seen “the grief too deep for tears.” Madeline went--her husband having returned to town--and locked herself into the room, and sat alone with the little corpse. Her sorrow was stony-eyed and hard; her grief the worst of grief--the loss of a child. And it was edged with what gave it a searching and agonizing point--remorse. Oh, that she might have him back--half her life for half a day--to look in his eyes, to whisper in his ears! But those pretty brown eyes were closed for ever; that little waxen ear would never more listen to a human voice. Surely she was the most unhappy woman who ever walked the earth, for to her was denied the comfort of atonement! She had been weak, wicked, unnatural; she had been a neglectful mother to her poor little son. And now, that she was yearning to be all that a mother should, now that she would verily give her life for his, it was too late! So long did she remain still and silent, so long was there no sound, not even of sobs, in that darkened room, that Mrs. Holt became alarmed; and towards sundown came authoritatively to the door with loud knocks and a cup of tea. “A fly had arrived to take her back to the station. Mr. Wynne had ordered it, and she must come out and have a cup of tea and go. She would do no good to any one by making herself ill.” And, by reason of her importunities, Mrs. Holt prevailed. The door was thrown back, and Mrs. Wynne came out with a face that--the farmer’s wife subsequently described--fairly frightened her. She had to stand over her and make her drink the tea, and had all the work in the world to prevail on her and coax her to go back to town. No, she would remain; she was determined to remain. However, Mrs. Holt had a still more robust will, and gradually coaxed her guest into returning home for just that one night. Anyway, she must go and fetch her clothes. She would be coming for the funeral. Mr. Wynne had said something about Friday. She could return. Best go _now_. “Yes,” answered Madeline, leaning against the doorway from pure physical weakness, and speaking in a curious, husky voice. “I am going to tell my father all, and I shall return to-morrow.” And then she went reluctantly down the walk, looking back over and over again at a certain window with a drawn blind, still wearing her white shoes--Mrs. Holt’s were three sizes too large for her--and, still without one single tear, she got into the fly and was driven away.