"I must go and see about that funeral!" he exclaimed to himself. "That poor child is there all alone, except for that ignorant mob. What a relief it is to think that old Chandler broke that engage—— Bah! that savored very strongly of cowardice and almost dishonor; but somehow I can't help feeling that I am ten years younger."
[CHAPTER XI.]
The golden hue of a dying sun lit up the West, and shone with radiant glory into the bare chamber where Leonie Cuyler sat, her head bowed upon the arm of the chair in which her grandfather had died.
She did not hear the knock that sounded upon the door, nor did she hear it open, nor see the man who entered.
He looked at her for a moment in silence, noting her extreme gracefulness even in a position like that; he saw where the sun kissed the bowed head as if in benediction; he understood the terrible grief that hovered over her, and something like tears gleamed in his eyes as he went forward and drew a chair close to her.
"Leonie," he said, taking her hand gently, "arouse yourself, dear. Do you think you are doing right to give way to your grief in this manner? I know that it is hard to bear; but it must come to us all sooner or later, and he is at rest! Does that thought bring you no consolation?"
She lifted her head, a terrible shiver shaking her.
"It is the only consolation that I have!" she answered drearily. "When I remember how full his life was of sorrow that no time could ever have lightened, I am glad that he is at peace with God. But the burden is hard to bear, when I am so bitterly alone, oh, God! so horribly alone!"
"Do I count for nothing, then?"