My aunt was disappointed to find that Mr.
Thompson had not proposed to me after all,
and I was hurt to the heart's core by the coldness
of his adieu. My value had gone down
with my cousin's faithlessness; mine had been
at the best but a reflected light. I was liked
because Jessie was loved.

She became Mrs. Norris soon after this. She
was married from my aunt's house, out of regard
to Mr. Norris, who was related to her, and who
disliked Mrs. Gray. "That busybody," he
called her, and I am afraid she was a busybody.
Jessie was very bright, and seemed very happy.
She teased me unmercifully about Mr. Thompson.
She was sure, she said, he had made love to me,
and she looked at me with cruel significance as
she spoke. But I betrayed neither his secret nor
mine; and though she vexed me when she
quizzed him to Mr. Norris, especially about his
umbrella, I did keep silent.

"I am sure he will be married with his
umbrella under his arm," she said, the evening
before her own wedding. "Don't you think so?"

I did not answer her; I went out into the
garden, and wondered how she had charmed him.
Alas! I might have wondered how, without
seeking it, he had charmed me.

Jessie's marriage was a blow to my aunt. She
had always thought I should go off first. She
was also cruelly disappointed by Mr. Thompson's
indifference, and perhaps she guessed the meaning
of my altered looks. I believe I got pale
and thin just then. And I was always playing
Chopin's march.

"My dear," said my aunt to me one evening,
"is not that very mournful?"

"I like it, aunt," I replied; but I resolved to
play it no more.

"Mr. Thompson liked it," she said, with a
sigh. "I wonder he did not propose to you,"
she added, abruptly.

I was mute.

"I wish I had never asked him here," she
resumed; " I cannot help thinking——"

"Don't, pray don't!" I interrupted.

She did not insist, but she made me go and
sit by her. She caressed me, she coaxed me,
and little by little she drew my secret from me.

"My poor darling," she said, when I had
confessed all, "he may value you yet."

"No, aunt, he never will. But pray do not
trouble about me. I mean to get over it, and
I will."

I spoke resolutely, and my aunt praised me.

"You have always been the best of girls,"
she said, tenderly, "and I am glad you have
had confidence in me. I did not mean to leave
home this vear; but now I will take you to the
sea-side. You must have a change, my poor
darling."

She kissed me, and I remember how calm and
happy I felt in that grey room, sitting by my
dear aunt's side, and looking at the starry sky.
The nightingale was singing again as on that
sad evening when I had felt so broken-hearted;
tears rose to my eyes when I remembered it,
and his last kindness, and my foolish withered
hopes; but the bitterness was gone from my
sorrow.

"You must have a change," said my aunt
again.

Alas! the change came with the morning.
My aunt was late for breakfast. I went up to
her room and found her calmly sleeping. But
oh! too calm, too deep, were those slumbers.
The kind eyes which had rested on me in love
were closed, the voice which had ever spoken in
praise and endearment was silenced, for ever
and ever.

I suppose it was not Jessie's fault that her
husband was my aunt's heir-at-law; but I found
it very hard. Poor dear aunt, she always did
mean to make a will in my favour, and she never
did. Mr. Norris behaved very handsomely, I
was told. He gave me the piano which had
been bought for me, a few other articles of
no great value, and all my aunt's wardrobe. He
kept her jewels, which were fine, and the furniture,
for which, as he said truly enough, I had
no use. Moreover, he allowed me to remain in
the cottage till Lady-day; though perhaps, as
he could not live in two houses at a time, and
must pay the rent whether I stayed there or
not, this was no such great favour after all. God
forgive me, I fear I was very sinful during the
dark days that followed. I had some friends
who did, or rather who said, their best; but
there was one who never came near me, who
gave me no token of his existence, who had no
kind word for me, who let me struggle through
my hard trial, and who never offered a helping
hand. He might at least have written, have
condoled with me in my sorrow, but he did not.
And yet he was in the neighbourhood. He was
often at Mr. Norris's house. Jessie herself told
me so. True, he had business to transact with
her husband; but still, how could he do it?

He did it, and he did more. Mr. Norris
was thrown off his horse one morning and
brought home dead. Jessie became a widow,
and a poor one, said the world. Mr. Norris
was not a rich man after all, and he left many
debts. I only went to see her once. I found
her cold, callous, and defiant, under her infliction;
yet I would have gone again if Mr.
Thompson had not been Mr. Norris's executor.
He had business to settle with the widow, and
I could only interfere; besides, I could not
bear to see them together. It was very wrong
and very useless, but it was so. Mrs. Gray
often came to see me. I cannot say she
comforted me much. She gave me a world of
wearisome advice, and told me much that I
would rather not have heard. What was it to me
now, that accounts kept him so often and so late
with Jessie? They were both free; and if he
chose to forgive her and marry her, and if she
chose to marry once more for money—I say it
again—what was it to me?

And yet I suppose it was something, after
all; for when Mrs. Gray left me one afternoon
in February, I felt the loneliest being on this
wide earth. She had harped again on that