that reminded her of her parents. If she had not had Gerald to go with
her she did not know how she could have borne it, but Gerald, her own
beautiful brother, with his chestnut curls, dark bright eyes, sweet
temper, and great cleverness and goodness, he must be a comfort to her
wherever she was. Gerald was one of those children who seem to have a
peculiar atmosphere of bright grace and goodness around them, who make
beautiful earnest sayings in their simplicity which are treasured up by
their friends, who, while regarding them with joy and something like
veneration, watch them likewise with fear and trembling. Thus had his
mother looked upon Gerald, and thus in some degree did Mrs. Wortley; but
Marian had nothing but pride, joy, and confidence in him, unalloyed save
now and then by the secret, half superstitious fear that such goodness
might mark him for early death.

By Marian's own especial desire, she went to almost every cottage to
take leave, but all she could do was to stand with her head averted and
her lips compressed, while Mrs. Wortley spoke for her. Her next task was
to look over the boxes and drawers at the manor house, in case it should
be let; for no one else could be trusted to decide what hoards of highly
prized trifles should be locked up, and what must be thrown away. She
alone could choose the little keepsakes to be given to old servants and
village friends, and she must select what she would take to Oakworthy.

She stood lingering before each picture, viewing the old familiar
furniture with loving eyes, and sighing at the thought that strangers
would alter the arrangements, look carelessly or critically on her
father's portrait, think her wild garden a collection of weeds, and root
up the flowering fern which Edmund had helped her to transplant. She
went into her own room, and felt almost ready to hate the person who
might occupy it; she lay down on the bed, and looking up at the same