death from him who had been to her far dearer than all that life now
contained--without whom the world was now empty to her for ever.

Quietly and calmly she then arose, and but for the settled wretchedness
of her look, the stillness of her spirit might have been mistaken for
apathy. Without resistance, without a tear, in the dry agony of burning
grief she gently gave herself up to the guidance of those who wept,
while they attempted to soothe her. In reply to their attempts at
consolation she only uttered one brief sentence in Irish. "Oh," said
she, "God is good--still, still, this was a dark day to Felix and to
me!"

At the inquest which followed, there was no proof to criminate the
wretched brother; nor, to speak truly, were the jury anxious to find
any. The man's shrieking misery was more wild and frightful than death
itself. From "the Dark Day" until this on which I write, he has never
been able to raise his heart or his countenance. Home he never leaves,
except when the pressure of business compels him; and when he does, in
every instance he takes the most unfrequented paths and the loneliest
by-roads, in order to avoid the face and eye of man. Better, indeed,
to encounter flood or fire, than to suffer what he has borne, when the
malicious or coarse-minded have reproached him, in what we trust, is his
repentance, with his great affliction.

Alley contrary to the earnest solicitations of Hugh and Maura, went back
to reside with her mother. Four years have now passed, and the virgin
widow is constant to her grief. With a bunch of yarn on her arm, she may
be occasionally seen in the next market-town; the chastened sorrow of
her look agreeing well with her mournful weeds. In vain is she pressed
to mingle in the rustic amusements of her former companions; she cannot