It was over:  they all stood round for a few minutes.  At last Mr. Langford moved; Henrietta was also obliged to turn away, but before doing so, she raised her eyes to her father’s name, to take leave of him as it were, as she always did before going out of Church.  She met her Uncle Geoffrey’s eye as she did so, and took his arm; and as soon as she was out of the church, she said almost in a whisper, “Uncle, I don’t wish for him now.”

He pressed her arm, and looked most kindly at her, but he did not speak, for he could hardly command his voice; and he saw, too, that she might safely be trusted to the influences of that only true consolation which was coming upon her.

They came home—­to the home that looked as if it would fain be once more cheerful, with the front window blinds drawn up again, and the solemn stillness no longer observed.  Henrietta hastened up to her own room, for she could not bear to show herself to her brother in her long crape veil.  She threw her bonnet off, knelt down for a few minutes, but rose on hearing the approach of Beatrice, who still shared the same room.  Beatrice came in, and looked at her for a few moments, as if doubtful how to address her; but at last she put her hand on her shoulder, and looking earnestly in her face, repeated—­

“Then cheerily to your work again,
With hearts new braced and set,
To run untir’d love’s blessed race,
As meet for those who, face to face,
Over the grave their Lord have met.”

“Yes, Queenie,” said Henrietta, giving a long sigh, “it is a very different world to me now; but I do mean to try.  And first, dear Bee, you must let me thank you for having been very kind to me this long time past, though I am afraid I showed little thankfulness.”  She kissed her affectionately, and the tears almost choked Beatrice.

“Me! me, of all people,” she said.  “O, Henrietta!”

“We must talk of it all another time,” said Henrietta, “but now it will not do to stay away from Fred any longer.  Don’t think this like the days when I used to run away from you in the winter, Bee—­that time when I would not stop and talk about the verses on the holly.”

While she spoke, there was something of the “new bracing” visible in every movement, as she set her dress to rights, and arranged her curls, which of late she had been used to allow to hang in a deplorable way, that showed how little vigour or inclination to bear up there was about her whole frame.

“O no, do not stay with me,” said Queen Bee, “I am going”—­to mamma, she would have said, but she hardly knew how to use the word when speaking to Henrietta.

“Yes,” said Henrietta, understanding her.  “And tell her, Bee—­for I am sure I shall never be able to say it to her,—­all about our thanks, and how sorry I am that I cared so little about her or her comfort.”  “If I had only believed, instead of blinding myself so wilfully!” she almost whispered to herself with a deep sigh; but being now ready, she ran downstairs and entered her brother’s room.  His countenance bore traces of weeping, but he was still calm; and as she came in he looked anxiously at her.  She spoke quietly as she sat down by him, put her hand into his, and said, “Thank you, dear Fred, for making me go.”