love, if that is what you mean."

Upon which she took the girl in her arms and kissed her, and cried, as
women must. "My dearest," she said, "as you have guessed the worst, it is
better to tell you. Lady Mary--I don't know why; oh, I don't wish to
blame her--has left no will; and, my dear, my dear, you who have been
brought up in luxury, you have not a penny." Here the vicar's wife gave
Mary a closer hug, and kissed her once more. "We love you all the
better,--if that was possible," she said.

How many thoughts will fly through a girl's mind while her head rests on
some kind shoulder, and she is being consoled for the first calamity that
has touched her life! She was neither ungrateful nor unresponsive; but
as Mrs. Bowyer pressed her close to her kind breast and cried over her,
Mary did not cry, but thought,--seeing in a moment a succession of
scenes, and realizing in a moment so complete a new world, that all her
pain was quelled by the hurry and rush in her brain as her forces rallied
to sustain her. She withdrew from her kind support after a moment, with
eyes tearless and shining, the color mounting to her face, and not a sign
of discouragement in her, nor yet of sentiment, though she grasped her
kind friend's hands with a pressure which her innocent small fingers
seemed incapable of giving. "One has read of such things--in books," she
said, with a faint courageous smile; "and I suppose they happen,--in
life."

"Oh, my dear, too often in life. Though how people can be so cruel, so
indifferent, so careless of the happiness of those they love--"

Here Mary pressed her friend's hands till they hurt, and cried, "Not
cruel, not indifferent. I cannot hear a word--"