"The Lord bless you and keep you, my child, now and evermore."
Joyce did not weep or make any outward sign of great distress. She left all tears and cries to Charlotte, who, sincerely grieved, took care that every one should know it.
"Shall I come? Shall I come with you? Oh, Joyce—my darling Joyce! Oh dear! Oh dear!"
"No, Charlotte; don't come; don't come. Help me to fasten my cloak. I—I can't find the clasp."
Miss Frowde thrust Charlotte aside, and fastening Joyce's cloak, seemed only anxious to get her off as speedily as possible. It was a very inconvenient episode; and if Mrs. More were the worse for the excitement it would be very disastrous. Secretly Miss Frowde wished she could get rid of Charlotte too, but as she only wept and moaned, and made no attempt to put her things together, Miss Frowde refrained from urging her to do so. Miss Frowde was not unkind or unfeeling, she was simply and absolutely devoted to Mrs. More; and, indeed, it was well that she was always at hand to perform the hundred and one kindly offices, which the spoiled and pampered domestics neglected.
Joyce was soon ready, Charlotte clinging to her to the last, and following her to the hall, with sobs and tears.
Nevertheless, as the gig drove off, and the wheels crunched the gravel on the drive, Charlotte returned to her room to bathe her eyes and smooth her hair, and soon returned with a woe-begone face to the sitting-room, and received, with some complacency, the condolences of the pale-faced curate in the corner, sharing his hymn-book when the family service of praise and prayer began, with which all gatherings closed at Barley Wood.
