Mrs. Hepburn’s fears for her sister were not immediately realized; for weeks there was no symptom of the reaction she had dreaded. Gwyneth threw herself with a passionate energy into all the preparations, the business, and the distressing bustle which must follow the decease of a clergyman. The necessity of leaving the home of their whole life, the doubts where to go; the troublesome technicalities of dilapidations, and other matters of the same kind; the anxiety regarding what Maurice would wish done in his absence; the misery of parting with all the treasured relics which a family mansion contains, of knowing that all they had loved and valued must pass into other and careless hands, painful as they were, did not daunt her spirit. Her one wish was to leave the place; her answer, when Hilary begged her not to overtire herself, was generally, “I can not rest at Hurstdene.” No, she could not rest there, now she knew that she must, eventually, leave it; now that her pleasant visions had been so rudely overthrown; that her day-dreams had proved more evanescent than the sunset glory on the tree-tops; rest in _his_ house, she could not; knowing, as she did, that he only waited for their quitting it to pull down the whole, from ridge-tile to door-sill. Rest there! where he, who was now whispering soft things to another, had once said and looked such words, such meanings to herself, as she dared not now recall. She was incessantly urgent to be gone; but nothing would persuade her to go first; she would not yield so far as to seem unable to remain. Sybil took Nest back to London with her, Gwyneth remained with Hilary. The marriage of Mr. Barham’s daughters was approaching; one ceremony was to unite the two couples, and the country round re-echoed with gossip on the subject. The owner of “the Ferns” was at home, Dora, too, had returned to Drewhurst Abbey; all there looked as bright and gay, to outward seeming, as the affairs at the Vicarage showed dull and sad. The black crape of the mourners, and the orange wreaths of the young brides, were but the symbols of the apparent contrast between their present prospects. Yet, perhaps, all was not as it seemed; there might be throbbing hearts and wrung feelings under the folds of the richest brocades; there might be bitter tears in secret, shed over the elegant baubles which custom dedicates as fitting presents for a wedding; there might be a shadow upon the mental vision, through whose thick gloom the bridal finery might appear but as a ghastly mockery, more fearful, more dismal, than a funeral pall. And there are consolations for unselfish mourners, which bear up the heart, and support the drooping spirit, and make the feeble strong; sweet thoughts of peace, which fill the void that death occasions, and make even memory a comfort and a blessing, though it calls up scenes never to be repeated here. No, the parting which a hopeful death occasions, is not the darkest shadow in this world of sorrow!