It was from meditations such as these that she was roused by their arrival at their destination; and she was able to come back from them with cheerfulness, to greet the kind and thoughtful stranger who had taken such pains to show them friendly feeling and good will. Mrs. Lawrence did not enter with them their new residence; she judged that the sisters would be glad to rest, without feeling constrained to exercise civility; she therefore left them at the door, with a promise to see them to-morrow, and trusting they would find all right, she departed. Hilary took Gwyneth under the arm, and they walked in together, leaving the two maids to arrange the trunks, while they took the first view of their new home. Small it was, but very comfortable, and the furniture had been arranged by tasteful and loving hands. On the table stood the tea-service just ready for the weary travelers, and on the cheerful fire bubbled and hissed the little kettle. Flowers were in the vases too, and the sofa was wheeled up exactly at the most comfortable angle, while their books, and some well-known drawings of Sybil’s own, prettily framed, completed the pleasant aspect of their room, and spoke audibly of love and remembrance. Gwyneth looked round for a moment, then, with a sigh, she threw off her bonnet and cloak, and sinking on the sofa, buried her face in the cushions. Hilary took in at a glance all that it was intended she should read there, the gentle thoughts, the sisterly zeal, the kindly-meant attention, and refreshed and strengthened as she drank in such pleasant feelings, she turned her eyes on Gwyneth. There was that in her attitude which told of utter prostration, both bodily and mental, which showed that the spring which had moved her hitherto had lost its power, and that her energies were now suffering a collapse as entire as their former strained motions had been unnatural. Hilary went round to the back of the sofa, and stooping, kissed her cheek with gentle love. That soft touch overpowered Gwyneth; her resolution to conceal her emotions at all hazards gave way; her customary reserve thawed, and she burst into an agony of tears, startling and alarming from their vehemence. But Hilary felt that even this storm was better than the smothered fire which had for weeks past been burning up her sister’s heart, and consuming her life by a slow torture, so she rather encouraged than attempted to stop its progress; by kind caresses and gentle words of endearment, she increased the flow of feeling for a time, that so the source of grief being dried by exhaustion, a real and permanent calm might be the result. Gwyneth wept till she had no power to shed tears; and when her mourning hushed itself into a quiet, low sob at intervals, and she was able to listen, her sister spoke. “Dear Gwyneth! this is my fault; your sorrow comes of me, my carelessness; ah, how ill I have fulfilled my charge.”