In forming that simple spirit, Nature had forgotten arrogance and wrath.

She would never have fought against the cruelty of changed affections if that or the treasons of an unprincipled husband had come.

His love would have been her light and life, and when that was turned away, like a northern flower that has lost its sun, she would have only hung her pretty head, and died, in her long winter.

So viewing now the ways of wisdom from a distance, I think I can see they were the best, and how that fair, young mortal, who seemed a sacrifice, was really a conqueror.
Puddock and Devereux on this eventful night, as we remember, having shaken hands at the door-steps, turned and went up stairs together, very amicably again, to the captain's drawing-room.
So Devereux, when they returned to his lodgings, had lost much of his reserve, and once on the theme of his grief, stormed on in gusts, and lulls, and thunder, and wild upbraidings, and sudden calms; and the good-natured soul of little Puddock was touched, and though he did not speak, he often dried his eyes quietly, for grief is conversant not with self, but with the dead, and whatever is generous moves us.
'There's no one stirring now, Puddock--I'll put my cloak about me and walk over to the Elms, to ask how the rector is to-night,' said Devereux, muffling himself in his military mantle.
It was only the restlessness of grief.

Like all other pain, grief is haunted with the illusion that change means relief; motion is the instinct of escape.