CHAPTER IX.

IT is needless to describe the consternation of the parish when its morning milkman disseminated the news that the curate had died in the night, leaving his interesting young wife a widow.

A widow! That gay and girlish creature! From the highest to the lowest-from Mrs. Brown to the woman who swept the church-every female heart was touched, every imagination shocked, by the pathetic circumstance. They thought of her in her crape gown and cap, and wept. Then they went to see her, to advise about material and dressmakers, to sew, and run errands for her, to coax her to eat and drink, to do everything they could think of to show how sorry and how sympathetic they were. Even Mrs. Brown, forgetting dignity and her ancient wrongs, went forth to condole with the fallen enemy, full of maternal impulses and that sense of duty which distinguished her.

When she found the other ladies usurping the office of confidential friend, she was nasty to them.

She said she hoped they would forgive her if she pointed out that this was no time to worry the poor girl with fussy attentions, which, though doubtless meant kindly, could only distress and disturb her. And, having got them out of the house, she sat down by Nancy's side, and preached and prosed, for hours at a stretch, in a way only to be borne by one to whom a little misery more or less was of no consequence in so vast a grief.

Nancy was "proper" now, if she had never been so before; she fulfilled her social and domestic obligations nobly. This was a satisfaction to Mrs. Brown. But when the funeral was over, and a Christian resignation required, it became a grievance to that lady that the young widow could not be prevailed on to leave off crying. Proper feeling was all very well, said Mrs. Brown, but this extravagant self-indulgence was sinful. She told Nancy so.

"I can't help it," wailed Nancy. "When I look round on this dear little home, where we were so happy together-"

She cast her heavy eyes upon the curate's chair and the table where he used to write his sermons, and sobbed afresh.

"You must not remain here," said the archdeacon's wife, "where everything about you re

minds you of your loss. You must come to us, my dear. I have a room ready for you—a room with a fireplace-and you must take shelter under my wing until we hear from your father."

This was an offer that Nancy had received a dozen times. Every house in the parish would have been her home, had she chosen to make it so. But she refused them all.

"No, no," she cried. "It is very kind of you, but I can't go away. It is here that we lived together I seem to see his dear face at every turn. Oh, what shall I do without him? What shall I do?"

"You must try to combat this morbid feeling," said Mrs. Brown; and she proceeded to aid her in that direction with all the arguments at her command. "You must see, my love, that, apart from what you wish and what you don't wish, it is not right for so young a woman as you to be alone."

"Joanna keeps me company," said Nancy, "and everybody is so kind, coming in to sit with me."

Besides, it would be too expensive, keeping the house on now. As your poor husband has left you so little, you must think of that. Of course, you will be going home to your father as soon as he sends us word about arrangements; but in the

meantime I should economise, if I were you. I speak for your good, my dear."

"The house won't cost much," said Nancy. "I have enough to keep myself for a little while; Mr. Hardcastle says so. He advises me to stay here, if I like that best."

"What business is it of Mr. Hardcastle's, I should like to know?"

"He is managing my affairs for me."

"You should have put them into the archdeacon's hands. He was the proper person. Indeed, he has written to your father to tell him that we shall take charge of you until you are sent for."

"He is very kind. But I shall not be sent for." "What?" Mrs. Brown was unpleasantly surprised. She divined that here was something that had probably been confided to Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Grimshaw, and withheld from her, who should have been the first to know it.

"I shall not be going home yet," said Nancy. "That's one reason why I don't want to give up the house."

"Not going home!" echoed Mrs. Brown; "and why not?"

"Well, at least I must wait till I hear from my father, and see what he says."

"Of course.

come home.

But he will be sure to tell you to

He will expect you to do that at

once, as a matter of course."

་་

"I think not, Mrs. Brown. You see, my brother Frank was coming out in a few months, and

they depended on my being here to look after him."

"But they will not send him now."

I feel at

"They may. I will wait and see. home in Wooroona now; I would as soon stay awhile as not. And I may be of use to Frank, though I am of no use now to any one else." This with a gush of tears, and an intimation that her head ached too badly to talk any more.

So she stayed-stayed in Wooroona, and stayed in the miller's little cottage, which she now held at a lower rent than ever. And she had so many presents of vegetables, fowls, young pork, newlaid eggs, hares, wild ducks, oysters, cream-cheeses, butter, cakes, new potatoes, and so on and so on, that the expenses of her housekeeping were but trifling.

Her friends, that were her former enemies, went to see her daily; sat with her, slept with her, took her out for walks and drives. They called her Nancy, with tender prefixes, and-and, in short, determined that Brother Frank should not have to