She's made like that--and at bottom she's not at all a bad sort." "Are you going away?" was all the answer that Mrs. Dennistoun made. "Oh, yes, and we shall be a good riddance," said Harry; "but please don't think any worse of us than you can help---- Phil--well, he's got a great deal of good in him--he has indeed, and she'll bring it all out." It was very good of Harry Compton. He had a little choking in his throat as he walked back. "Blest if I ever thought of it in that light before," he said to himself. But I doubt if what he said, however well meant, brought much comfort to Mrs. Dennistoun's heart. CHAPTER XVII. Thus Elinor Dennistoun disappeared from Windyhill and was no more seen. There are many ways in which a marriage is almost like a death, especially when the marriage is that of an only child. The young go away, the old remain. There is all the dreary routine of the solitary life unbrightened by that companionship which is all the world to the one who is left behind. So little--only the happy going away into brighter scenes of one whose happiness was the whole thought of that dreary survivor at the chimney corner--and yet so much. And if that survivor is a woman she has to smile and tell her neighbours of the bride's happiness, and how great the comfort to herself that her Elinor's life is assured, and her own ending is now of no particular importance to her daughter; if it is a man, he is allowed to lament, which is a curious paradox, but one of the many current in this world. Mrs. Dennistoun had to put a very brave face upon it all the more because of the known unsatisfactoriness of Elinor's husband: and she had to go on with her life, and sit down at her solitary meals, and invent lonely occupations for herself, and read and read, till her brains were often dazed by the multiplicity of the words, which lost their meaning as she turned over page by page. To sit alone in the house, without a sound audible, except perhaps the movement of the servants going up-stairs or down to minister to the wants, about which she felt she cared nothing whether they were ministered to or not, of their solitary mistress, where a little while ago there used to be the rhythm of the one quick step, the sound of the one gay voice which made the world a warm inhabited place to Mrs. Dennistoun--this was more dismal than words could say. To be sure, there were some extraordinary and delightful differences; there were the almost daily letters, which afforded the lonely mother all the pleasure that life could give; and there was always the prospect, or at least possibility and hope, of seeing her child again. Those two particulars, it need scarcely be said, make a difference which is practically infinite: but yet for Mrs. Dennistoun, sitting alone all the day and night, walking alone, reading alone, with little to do that was of the slightest consequence, not even the reading--for what did it matter to her dreary, lonely consciousness