here you told me your garden had been neglected of late, and you
blushed in saying so. Old Giles and others asked you before me why you
had given up visiting them; you colored and looked down. I could
almost have told them, but that would have made you uncomfortable. You
are in grief, and no common grief."

"Nothing worth speaking to you about, sir; nothing I will ever
complain of to any one."

"There I think you are wrong; religion has consoled many griefs; great
griefs admit of no other consolation. The sweetest exercise of my
office is to comfort the heavy hearted. Your heart is heavy, my poor
lamb--tell me--what is it?"

"It is nothing, sir, that you would understand; you are very skilled
and notice-taking, as well as good, but you are not a woman, and you
must excuse me, sir, if I beg you not to question me further on what
would not interest you."

Mr. Eden looked at her compassionately, and merely said to her again,
"What is it?" in a low tone of ineffable tenderness.

At this Susan looked in a scared manner this way and that. "Sir, do
not ask me, pray do not ask me so;" then she suddenly lifted her
hands, "My George is gone across the sea! What shall I do! what shall
I do!!" and she buried her face in her apron.

This burst of pure Nature--this simple cry of a suffering heart--was
very touching, and Mr. Eden, spite of his many experiences, was not a
little moved. He sat silent, looking on her as an angel might be