Thus the curate's record was made. The news went through the parish like the wind, in all its details; dozens of people were stopped in the village going to the sale, and a little comforted for their disappointment by the exciting story. Some of the people thought it was poor Miss Brown, the _other_ Mrs. St. John, whom he was looking for. Some felt it a strange heathenish sort of thing of him, a clergyman, that he should be thinking at that last moment of anything but the golden city with the gates of pearl; and thought there was a dreadful materialism in the cloak and hat. But most people felt a thrill of real emotion, and the moment he was dead, mourned Mr. St. John truly, declaring that Brentburn would never see the like of him again. Mrs. Ascott cried so that she got a very bad headache, and was obliged to go and lie down. But she sent her maid to ask if they could do anything, and even postponed a dinner-party which was to have been that evening, which was a very gratifying token of respect. Mrs. Joel, who was perhaps at the other extremity of the social scale, cried too, but had no headache, and went off at once to the rectory to make herself useful, pulling all the blinds down, which Betsy had neglected, and telling all the callers that poor Miss Cicely was as well as could be expected, though "it have given her a dreadful shock." The trunks stood all ready packed and corded, with Mr. St. John's name upon them. But he had no need of them, though he had kept his word and left Brentburn on the appointed day. After a while people began to think that perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened--best for him certainly--he could never have borne the rooting up, they said--he could never have borne Liverpool, so noisy and quarrelsome. "Why, it would have killed him in a fortnight, such a place," said Mr. Ascott, who had not, however, lent a hand in any way to help him in his struggle against fate. Mab, it is needless to say, came down at once with Aunt Jane, utterly crushed and helpless with sorrow. Poor Cicely, who was only beginning to realize what it was, and to make sure that her father absolutely was dead, and beyond the reach of all bringing back, had to rouse herself, and take her sister into her arms and console her. Mab sobbed quietly when she was in her sister's arms, feeling a sense of strong protection in them. "I have still you, Cicely," she said, clinging to her. "But Cicely has no one," said Aunt Jane, kissing the pale girl with that compassionate insight which age sometimes brings even to those who do not possess it by nature. "But it is best for you to have them all to look after, if you could but see it, my poor child!" "I do see it," said Cicely--and then she had to disentangle herself from Mab's clinging, and to go out of the room where they had shut themselves up, to see somebody about the "arrangements," though indeed everybody was very kind and spared her as much as they could.