Yes, the sun had gone down, and a soft October shower was dropping on the dead leaves.
'I thought it would be dusk, dear, and you were alone.'
'Yes, at least now. But,' faltered Juliet, 'I met Stafford;' and with a sudden outburst, she almost sobbed: 'Why should he love me? He wanted me to be his wife!'
'And you could not?'
'I! O no—of course not.' Dorothy could not see the reason so plainly; but Juliet seemed to do so very conclusively. 'I am so sorry,' she went on. But her auditor cared to hear no more; she knew it now, and wanted only to take up her steely shield of womanly pride. 'Had we not better hasten in?' she said gently. Already the pretty frilled cape on her shoulders hung limp with the damp.
CHAPTER IV.—IN DESOLATION UNREPINING.
That evening Juliet was tired, and sat quietly working; but Dorothy read aloud and talked and went through the little home duties with the iron entering her soul. O true words! None others so fitly express the cold hard pressure of a hopeless pain. But such brave hearts do not go through the conflict unaided; and often a passing shelter is provided, into which they may creep till the worst is over.
The next day Dorothy's limbs ached, and her throat pained her. 'She must have taken a chill last evening,' Juliet said; and for several days she kept her room, waited on by loving hands. Even a mother's eyes cannot always discern how much is ailment of the body and how much of the mind. But Dorothy was almost thankful for the pain that laid her quietly by, when nothing was expected of her; the trial could be faced, the burden adjusted for every-day bearing, and she was spared even the sight of Stafford. She heard the horses' feet beneath her window when they came to take leave, and received their kindly messages. To Juliet she never again spoke of that autumn afternoon. Perhaps Gilbert guessed his friend's secret, and generously forbore to wound him further by the sight of his own success; or perhaps he read his fate so surely in Juliet's eyes that he felt secure in waiting. Certainly it was not until some months after, when Stafford was away in foreign lands, that he came to ask her to be his wife. It was not a long engagement. There being no obstacles, they were soon married, and he took her away to his London home. They sorely missed the bright young girl at the Rectory, and father and mother drew more closely to the one daughter left. Dorothy had passed into the bloom of womanhood before the blow came that broke the little circle; the kindly Rector was laid in the village churchyard, and then Mrs Linley and her daughter removed into the neighbouring town.
As if to compensate for some things denied to Dorothy's lot in life, Fortune's gifts were cast into her lap. The same cousin who years before had bestowed the family living, dying childless, again benefited his far-away relatives; and when the dear old Squire was gathered to his fathers, he had not forgotten the children of his old friend. Thus spared the thorn of poverty herself, Dorothy lightened it to many another; and as time rolled on, was numbered in the ranks of those dear maiden ladies (what should we do without them?) in whose lives are hid many an unwritten story, and who make the sweetest aunties and such dear old friends.
And did Dorothy lose all sight of Stafford Melton? No; bear witness, years of kindly intercourse and loyal friendship. It has been said that the hopes of the past are the best seed-bed of the future—even crushed and broken ones bear their fruit.