It would not have startled her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of Roland Sefton crossing the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with the delight of his mountain ramble.
"But they are both dead," she said to herself.

"If only Mr.Roland had been living in Riversborough he would have told me what to do." She was too young to connect her father's death in any way with Roland Sefton's crime.

They two were the dearest persons in the world to her; and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world, meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten more perfectly than they could have been here.

She remembered how her father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when Roland was talking to him--talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful expression of his features.

There would be no need of signs and gestures where they had gone.