“It would have troubled him terribly to know you were leaving me just now, Pollie,” said Lucy, sufficiently reconciled to be able to show the wound to the hand which had dealt it. “I believe he would have deferred going away. Yet this is the right season for him to go—to say nothing of the opportunity of going with a good friend. You have made me keep a secret from my husband, Pollie, for the very first time, and the bare thought of it makes me unhappy!” “Why, it’s the sort o’ secret the angels in heaven must keep for us all!” cried Pollie, who had “Irish blood” on the mother’s side which moved when she was deeply stirred. “Sure, there’s many a thing they must see hanging over our heads that they just manage for us with never a word or a sign, and we never knowing what we should thank them for!” “Well, Pollie,” said her mistress, “let me hear of you sometimes, I shall be always glad to get good news of you, and you may care to know how we get on.” Pollie looked grave. “There’s no fear but you’ll do well enough, ma’am,” she said, with an emphasis on the personal pronoun, which was not without significance in a prospective bride. “There’s many a girl would jump sky high to get into such a place. An’ I’d never have left you for any other missis.” Lucy felt very lonely when she found herself left in the house with only little Hugh. The charwoman would come early in the morning, but would sleep in her own home as she had sons “to look after.” Lucy put Hugh to bed, heard him say his little prayer for dear papa, and talked about ships to him till he fell asleep, hugging a wooden rabbit which was Pollie’s parting gift. Then Lucy went wandering through the empty rooms. Pollie had left everything in “apple-pie” order. The pathetic traces of Charlie’s illness and convalescence were all cleared away. The kitchen, too, was neat and trim. Lucy mechanically pulled out the drawers, and set open the cupboard doors. All was as it should be, and Lucy was deeply thankful that Pollie had left behind no further disappointment in herself. For the hushed heart of yearning sorrow and anxiety shrinks from those squalid revelations of human nature, which torture it much as vermin might torment a helpless invalid. Under the infliction of Pollie’s bustle and Mrs. Brand’s chatter, Lucy had actually longed for this quiet hour. She had craved for the silence and the solitude in which it had seemed to her that her spirit might get nearer to the absent Charlie. For a brief spell there was sweetness in it, but it was not long before she felt that it might become a perilous and painful luxury. When she had gone through the house, giving here and there the little touch which must be always left for the hand of the mistress, and when there was absolutely nothing more to do that night, then she found that she realised not so much any spiritual communion with Charlie, as the silence and separation which lay between them.