"As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it."
"Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything he does."
Mrs. Falconer sighed.
"Well," she said, "I don't want to talk any more about it. I think if you will get me the yarn I will go on knitting Harry's stockings."
"Oh, yes," Joyce said; "and Piers will be so pleased to hold the skeins for you, mother."
Then she kissed her mother again and again, and whispered:
"You will come to church on Sunday, mother, won't you? It is so dull for you, sitting here day after day."
"I can do nothing else," was the reply—"nothing else. What else should I do? You are a dear, good child, Joyce. He always said so; he was always right."
There is nothing harder to meet than a grief like poor Mrs. Falconer's; or rather, I should say, there is nothing harder to meet than a grief which refuses to recognise love in the midst of anguish which hardens and, as it were, paralyzes the whole being; changes the fountain of sweetness into bitterness; making the accustomed routine of duty impossible and falling on the sufferer like a heavy pall.
"Missus is like somebody else; can't believe it is missus at all," the maids said, when Joyce returned with the orders for poor Susan to remain all night, and to be cared for till the morning.