root, it would either decay from its own want of power, or trail worthless on the ground, only fit to be torn from its parent earth as a weed--nothing more. CHAPTER XXI. Nothing could adequately pourtray to our readers the unhappy state of all at Gatestone. Juvenal had sunk into a querulous old man; Sylvia's bile had spread itself over all: she silenced any qualms of conscience she might otherwise have felt, by keeping every one as uncomfortable as possible. If she beheld the faintest gleam of forgetfulness passing across the horizon, she immediately drew down the blinds of despair, and threw every one into darkness again, and sorrow; they could not even for a moment lose sight of their loss. If the wind whistled she gave a shiver, and talked of storms at sea, and drowning persons; if the railway whistle, borne on the air for miles, came faintly over Gatestone, she put her handkerchief to a dry eye, and _snivelled_ over the recollection thus suddenly recalled to her aching memory, of Gretna Green and its consequences. She was an inexhaustible fund of woe; for when Juvenal had been lured by the kind-hearted Dorcas into some other train of thought, Sylvia would suddenly remind them that this was the anniversary of a day in which Minnie had said, done, worn, or completed something, and consequently she had the house in as miserable a state as she could desire; all crept about from pantry to garret in listen shoes, that they might not break in on the general woe; this was another happy invention of Sylvia's, which made the large house as silent as if death were abiding there. Dorcas was lost, indeed, when Mr. Skaife left his curacy for Paris; for, without naming Minnie often, they consoled one another by gentle words, and works of charity accomplished together. Now Dorcas was fain to betake herself principally to her own room; for her means of consoling Juvenal were hourly more severed from her grasp. He became perfectly disconsolate, and rocked to and fro, like one bordering on idiotcy. Of Marmaduke Burton's return he never would listen to; he never should enter _his_ house, for his guidance had led him to oppress Minnie, and drive her to desperation. Mrs. Gillett's woe was beyond even the others; for she carried it even into sleep--she was constantly dreaming some dreadful dream. Either she saw Minnie a corpse or in bridal gear; both were bad--the first proved her spirit was unquiet--the second, an unerring sign of death. Now, as Minnie _was_ dead, she couldn't die again; consequently, it must be the death of some one at Gatestone--but whose? And she would seek the sympathizing Sylvia, and break into loud prognostications of evil.