Slowly, very slowly Catherine recovered from the shock of that bitter parting. And then she felt so lonely—so desolate; no mother—no sister—no bosom friend, to give her one comforting look of sympathy, or one sustaining word of affection. And she mourned afresh the loss of that dear, sympathising, maternal friend, always so ready in her loving wisdom, always so ready in any trial or affliction to give counsel and comfort. And, oh! Catherine needed these—for, like the black, scudding fragments of clouds left by the tempest, dark, despairing thoughts drifted through her mind. Yes, she had need, and profoundly felt that need, of counsel and comfort in this bewildering sorrow; but of whom could she seek it? Of none—of none must she seek it. The true wife’s instinct taught her that. For even when the retrospective image of his dead mother, her own beloved bosom friend, recurred in the shape of a once possible mediator between herself and husband, her mind intuitively recoiled from the idea, and she knew that were that dear mother now living, not even of her could she make a confidant—that the religious unity, the integral sanctity, the cherished exclusiveness of marriage would be invaded and broken, and the sweet charm lost by the introduction of a third party—beloved even as that dear, mutual mother—into its sacred counsels. No, unhappy and bewildered as she was, she felt that by all her hopes of a future happy union, this wretched division must be kept to herself—upon herself solely recoil the burden and the pain—she “must tread the wine press alone.” And even when she prayed for Divine inspiration to guide her, the response came from the depths of her spirit, “The Word of God is within you.” And how empty the house seemed because one was away—how gloomy—how funereal—even the light footstep of a chamber-maid in the distance sounded hollowly,—sending a dreary echo through the many passages of the great, empty house—empty, for that he was gone. It seemed not worth while to go on with daily life at all—to keep up the fire on the household hearth, or to light the evening lamp, or to order meals for herself alone. But if Catherine were for once tempted in her sorrow to forget her duties,—her duties were not the least disposed to leave her long in peace—no, not for an hour. Catherine was roused from her fit of deep thought by the entrance of a field woman, who, with the usual curtsey, and the customary greeting of—“Sarvunt, ma’am,” stood before her. Kate raised her heavy eyelids abstractedly.