“Oh, well,” she said with a toss of her head. “The mode is well enough, I dare say, since ’twill convey me to New York. And Fleetwood is to go with one of the men.” But Peggy knew that in spite of her brave front the girl was humiliated at the manner of her departure. Without a glance at the surrounding crowd of curious ones Harriet took her place in the cart, and settled herself comfortably. “If a letter should come from Clifford, madam my cousin,” she said leaning forward to speak to Mrs. Owen, “I pray you to read it. Then write him in answer what hath befallen me. Tell him I will spare no effort to have him join me soon in New York. And so farewell!” She smiled brightly at them, and waved her hand repeatedly as the cart drove off. Peggy and her mother stood watching it as long as it was in sight. “Oh, mother, I am so tired of it all,” said the girl, with tears. “Will nothing ever be right any more? Will this long war and all its complications never be over with? I am so weary, mother.” “Give not way to such feelings, Peggy,” said her mother, drawing her into the house. “It doth seem dark at times, and this happening is in truth a sad ending to Harriet’s stay with us. But everything will come right in time. Do not doubt it. Have faith. All will be well some time.” CHAPTER IX—THE DICTATES OF HUMANITY “The sweetest lives are those to duty wed Whose deeds both great and small, Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread, Where love ennobles all. The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells; The Book of Life the shining record tells.” —_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_. After the departure of an inmate of a family, whether that person has been pleasant or otherwise, there follows a feeling of blankness, of something amiss. Distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. Objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. And so it was with Harriet. Her irritability, her unpleasant remarks, her ceaseless demand upon their service were soon forgotten. The grace and dignity that distinguished her from others were remembered to her advantage. The pleasant smile, the pretty manner, the imperious bearing were idealized in the softening glamour of absence. The mode of her departure had palliated whatever of resentment Mrs. Owen and Peggy might have felt for the girl’s breach of hospitality. “I believe that I am lonesome without Harriet,” declared Peggy one evening. “Is thee, mother?” It was the seventh day of Harriet’s absence. Tea was over. The servants had retired for the night, and mother and daughter sat alone in the sitting-room, knitting by the light of the candles.