Tom saw nothing of Ethel for hours afterward. Nobody seemed to know where she had betaken herself. "In the parish, of course," everybody said, when Tom went about asking questions. At five-o'clock tea she did not become visible. Tom felt sufficiently punished; yet he began to count Ethel's absence almost a compliment. It seemed to clothe him with a certain fictitious importance. CHAPTER XXII THE BREAKING STORM "For life is one long sleep, O'er which in gusts do sweep Visions of heaven; The body but a closed lid, By which the real world is hid From the spirit slumbering dark below; And all our earthly strife and woe, Tossings in slumber to and fro; And all we know of heaven and light In visions of the day or night To us is given." —_Author of "Schönberg-Cotta Family."_ FOR Mr. Carden-Cox to have a disturbed equanimity meant talk. Whatever he felt flowed outward in the natural vent of talk. This is usually supposed to be a feminine characteristic, but some men inherit it largely from their mothers, and Mr. Carden-Cox possessed it in perfection. The more his feelings were stirred, the more he had to say. This was the style of thing:— "Your mother resting—asleep! Best for her, much best. Well, girls, how are you? Pretty well, eh? Poor things—sad, very—most trying time. Everybody feels for you all—nice feeling expressed—and—Well, my dear boy, how are you? Not very robust yet? Grown thinner, I declare. Oh, it won't do for you to fret; no use at all. Nothing gained by fretting. What has to be, has to be. I tell everybody it is wrong to fret—tempting Providence!" It was true that Mr. Carden-Cox did tell everybody this, and some people were apt to ask responsively behind his back whether it was right to "sulk," which was the Newton Bury term for Mr. Carden-Cox's occasional retreats from society. "Quite wrong," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox. "Trouble has to be borne. 'Man is born to trouble.' Poor Browning—poor fellow—your poor father, I mean," stumbling awkwardly over the different modes of expression. "Yes, it's most unfortunate—sad, I mean. But you've got to think, all of you, that he is no doubt spared something worse—heart disease—might have suffered severely if he had lived. I'm sure nobody could have thought—but one ought to think! Wonder we don't understand more the uncertainties of life. Seems always to take us by surprise. 'In midst of life we are in death;' but it is very astonishing." Anice cried quietly, with subdued sniffles, as he talked, and Daisy looked indignant, while Fulvia's eyes wore a defensive expression. Nigel appeared not to be listening.