The next morning came a compact letter from her father. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. ’ ‘Yes, but when I think about this, I do not think I can do so,’ she said candidly. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance.
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