that grief which lay deep within himself--that grief which makes a sick chamber of the whole external world, and which greets no more, in the common boons of Nature, the opening Paradise of recovered Hope! His eye lingered on her face as its smile waned, and perceived that CHANGE which had so startled Waife. Involuntarily he moved to her side--involuntarily drew her arm within his own--she thus supporting the one who cherished--supported by the one who disowned her. Guy Darrell might be stern in resolves which afflicted others, as he was stern in afflicting himself; but for others he had at least compassion.
Poor Waife, with nature so different, marked Darrell's movement, and, ever ready to seize on comfort, said inly: "He relents. I will not go to-morrow as I had intended. Sophy must win her way; who can resist her?"
Talk languished--the wintry sun began to slope--the air grew keen--Waife was led in--the Morleys went up into his room to keep him company--Sophy escaped back to her own. Darrell continued his walk, plunging deep into his maze of beechwoods, followed by the doe. The swans dip their necks amongst the water-weeds; the flute has ceased, and drearily still is the grey horizon, seen through the skeleton boughs--seen behind the ragged sky-line of shaft and parapet in the skeleton palace.
Darrell does not visit Waife's room that day; he concludes that Waife and Sophy would wish to be much alone; he dreads renewal of the only subject on which he has no cheering word to say. Sophy's smile, Sophy's face haunted him. In vain he repeated to himself: "Tut, it will soon pass--only a girl's first fancy."
But Sophy does not come back to Waife's room when the Morleys have left it: Waife creeps into her room as before, and, as before, there she sits still as if in slumber. She comes in, however, of her own accord, to assist, as usual, in the meal which he takes apart in his room helps him--helps herself, but eats nothing. She talks, however, almost gaily; hopes he will be well enough to leave the next day; wonders whether Sir Isaac has missed them very much; reads to him Lady Montfort's affectionate letter to herself; and when dinner is over, and Waife's chair drawn to the fireside, she takes her old habitual place on the stool beside him, and says: "Now, dear grandfather--all about yourself--what happy thing has chanced to you?"
