Hilary knew that support and comfort would come alone from a higher source than earthly friendship, or domestic affection; but the gift of these latter was received as a favor to deserve gratitude, a token that He who provided even for temporal blessings, would not forsake his children, nor withdraw from them the necessary help. Her greatest anxiety was for Gwyneth now; and, perhaps, her bitterest sorrow was caused by Mr. Ufford. The latter, indeed, had deeply disappointed her by the coldness and reserve which, like a damp, wrapping mist, had crept over him. His visits had been few and hurried, except when absolutely sent for; his words cold, stiff, and unwillingly given. His time was principally devoted to riding over to the Abbey, which swallowed up most days in the week. His own prospects, of course, chiefly occupied him, and, no doubt, the visits at the Vicarage were painful for more than one reason; yet, when they remembered the past, their father’s kindness to him, his previous conduct, and friendly professions, and his connection with their sad loss, they all felt that something more was due from him than they received; perhaps he, too, was conscious of ingratitude, which made the sight of former friends unpleasant; perhaps he was simply self-engrossed, and thoughtless regarding the sorrows which did not touch him. But Gwyneth was a nearer, deeper trouble, and Hilary could not look at her without fear. The same stony composure wrapped her still. Ever since her father’s death she had shed no tear; but her dark eyes looked blacker than ever by contrast with her white cheeks; she spoke little, never of her feelings; she rested little; but with a strange, untiring energy, she seemed always engrossed by some object for the good of others. An ordinary observer would never have guessed the amount of agony and endurance that pallid brow concealed; but Hilary read it in her silence, in her downcast eyes, and in the burning touch of her fevered fingers, and she read it with fear; for such unnatural suppression of feeling, such intense and over-wrought calmness must, she knew, break down at last: and what would be the end of it? CHAPTER XXI. “Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce walks are drear, Madcap, what jest was this to meet me here! Were feet like those made for so wild a way? The southern chamber had been, by my fay, More fitting trysting-place for us to-day!” TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.