In the grave."
M. Arnold.
Days crawled by, and Helen gradually and painfully began to realize her lot. Hers was a silent, stony grief (now that the first torrent of tears had been shed) of that undemonstrative, reserved nature, that it is so difficult to alleviate, and that shrinks from outward sympathy. People (ladies) came to her, and sat with her, and held her hand, and wept, but she did not; this grief that had come upon her unawares, seemed almost to have turned her to stone. She opened her heart to Mrs. Home only; and in answer to affectionate attempts at consolation, she said,—
"I sometimes sit and wonder, wonder if it is true! You see, Mrs. Home, my case is so different to others. Now, if you were to lose one child—which heaven forbid—you have still eight remaining; if Colonel Home was taken from you, you have your children; but I have no one left. Papa was all I had, and I am alone in the world; I can scarcely believe it!"
"My dear, you must not say so! you have many friends, and friends are sometimes far better than one's own kin. Then there is your aunt. I wrote to her myself last mail."
"Aunt Julia! She is worse than nobody. She is an utter stranger, in reality, a complete woman of the world. She and I never got on; she was always saying hard things about him!"
"Well, you won't be with her long, you know! and you cannot say that you are alone in the world; you know very well that you will not be alone for long, you understand," squeezing her fingers significantly as she spoke.
Helen did understand, and coloured vividly. It seemed to her almost a sin to think of Gilbert Lisle now, when every thought was dedicated to her father, when all ideas of love or a lover had been, as it were, swept out of her mind by the blast of her recent and terrible calamity.
Mrs. Home noticed the blush, but again attributed its cause to the wrong person.