"See," said Norah, simply, turning to the first leaf in
the music-book--"my mother's name written in it, and some verses to
my father on the next page. We may keep this for ourselves, if we keep
nothing else." She put her arm round Miss Garth's neck, and a faint
tinge of color stole over her cheeks. "I see anxious thoughts in your
face," she whispered. "Are you anxious about me? Are you doubting
whether I have heard it? I have heard the whole truth. I might have
felt it bitterly, later; it is too soon to feel it now. You have seen
Magdalen? She went out to find you--where did you leave her?"
"In the garden. I couldn't speak to her; I couldn't look at her.
Magdalen has frightened me."
Norah rose hurriedly; rose, startled and distressed by Miss Garth's
reply.
"Don't think ill of Magdalen," she said. "Magdalen suffers in secret
more than I do. Try not to grieve over what you have heard about us this
morning. Does it matter who we are, or what we keep or lose? What loss
is there for us after the loss of our father and mother? Oh, Miss Garth,
_there_ is the only bitterness! What did we remember of them when we
laid them in the grave yesterday? Nothing but the love they gave us--the
love we must never hope for again.
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