and Janet, who had suffered such a shock without her. She seemed
more able to feel through her husband-—who was so devoted to his
mother, than for herself, and she was every moment more uneasy about
her little daughter, who must have been in the room with her
grandmother. Comfort them? How, she did not know! The others had
always petted and comforted her, and now—- No one to go to when the
children were ailing or naughty-—no one to share little anxieties
when Joe was out late—-no one to be the backbone she leant on—-no
dear welcome from the easy chair. That thought nearly set her
crying; the tears burnt in her strained eyes, but the sight of the
people opposite braced her, and she tried to fix her thoughts on the
unseen world, but they only wandered wide as if beyond her own
control, and her head was aching enough to confuse her.

At last, late on the long summer day, she was at the terminus, and
with a heart beating so fast that she could hardly breathe, found
herself in a cab, driving up to her own door, just as the twilight
was darkening.

How dark it looked within, with all the blinds down! The servant who
opened the door thought Miss Janet was in the drawing-room, but the
master was out. It sounded desolate, and Carey ran up stairs,
craving and eager for the kiss of her child-—the child who must have
borne the brunt of the shock.

The room was silent, all dusky and shadowed; the window-frames were
traced on the blinds by the gas freshly lighted outside, and moving
in the breeze with a monotonous dreariness. Carey stood a moment,
and then her eyes getting accustomed to the darkness, she discerned a
little heap lying curled up before the ottoman, her head on a great