She had loved him with all the love that had never before had an outlet. The days that followed were like a painful dream. What she had, what her position was--of all this she knew absolutely nothing. The one thing she clung to was the old grey house, with the great beech and plane trees, and silver firs, up which the squirrels (imps of mischief though they are) ran so gracefully. The sea--the friend of all, giving society and music to the desolate, and rejoicing the hearts of those who are lighthearted enough to enjoy its sparkling moods--that sea was now her friend. To wander in the wood and look down upon it; to let its salt spray touch her face as it broke upon the rocks.--She loved it in every mood, and found there something of the comfort which the absence of any intimate religion deprived her of, the bald learning of a few verses, the chapters read in the morning in a dull tone by a shivering teacher in the fireless schoolroom; where, from motives of economy, the fire (generally kindled with damp sticks, and which hardly ever did anything but smoke) was never even allowed to have a match put to it till the girls were all assembled there. This had been her religious instruction; and, as the church was very far from them, they seldom went, and, when they did go, the walk was too long for her, and most painful from the chilblains, which caused her much suffering; so that cold and pain were the chief impressions in connection with a sense of fatigue which left her half-awake in church, and employing all her energy in trying to conceal the fact of her drowsiness. Then one day, while looking out on the sea, some few months after her father's death, her hat off, and a vague sense of wishing she had something to look forward to, pressing upon her, Mr. Dorriman had come, and her brother.