The shades of night were closing fast around her, when Dorothy rose from her cold resting place, and returned home to perform her usual domestic labours. Her love was dead, but she had gained courage to bury it decently and sadly, and without uttering one wail, that might break upon the ears of the unsympathizing world. Her heart was the grave, into which she could retire at any moment to weep--the funeral lamp was ever burning--the sepulchre decked with flowers--and peace brooded there--a dove with folded wings. CHAPTER III. WHAT DOROTHY'S NEIGHBOURS SAID OF GILBERT'S DESERTION. The news of Gilbert Rushmere's good fortune soon spread through the parish. The farmer told it to his men in the field, the men told it, as in duty bound, to their wives, and then it flew like wildfire from house to house. Miss Watling invited her neighbours to tea, to talk it over, and have her say upon the subject. In her front parlour, or tea room, as she called it, were assembled several old friends. The first in place and dignity, Mrs. Barford, senior, to whom had been assigned the large easy chair, with its commodious fringed cushion, and well padded elbows. For the special use of her feet a footstool, covered with a piece of coarse worsted work, which had been the pride of Miss Watling's school days. The old lady looked very dignified in her best black silk gown and cap of real French lace, and seemed to consider herself a person of no small importance. Her daughter-in-law, who held a very subordinate position in the estimation of the public, sat near the window, as red, as plump, as much overdressed, and as vulgar looking as ever. A rosy, curly-headed, blue-eyed boy was lounging over his mother's knees, pulling at her smart cap-ribbons, and beating all the stiffness out of her gay muslin dress, by pounding it with his head. He was a beautiful child, and seemed to have it all his own way. Mrs. Sly and her daughter, Sarah Ann, a coarse black-browed lass of eighteen, and Mrs. Martha Lane, who kept the small shop, and sold tapes, needles, and pins, and other small wares in the village, made up the party. Neither Mrs. Rushmere, nor her adopted daughter, Dorothy Chance, had been included in the invitation. Miss Watling looked round the room with a gracious smile, to ascertain that her guests were all comfortably seated, before she introduced the great topic, the discussion of which had formed the chief inducement in bringing them together. "Well, ladies, I suppose you have heard the news? That Miss Dolly Nobody won't be Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere after all." "I never thought she wu'd," said Mrs. Joe, looking up from the child's sock she was knitting. "Gilbert know'd what he was about, when he run'd away. It was just to get quit o' her." "I always said so from the first," returned Miss Watling, "but you all had such ideas of the girl, that I could get no one to believe me."