The house is very quiet: I've sent all the children away, except the baby.

The baby'll comfort her, poor dear! afterwards." And, again drying her honest eyes, Mrs.Tod ran out of the room.
We could do nothing at all that morning.

The impending sorrow might have been our own, instead of that of people who three weeks ago were perfect strangers.

We sat and talked--less, perhaps, of them individually, than of the dark Angel, whom face to face I at least had never yet known--who even now stood at the door of our little habitation, making its various inmates feel as one family, in the presence of the great leveller of all things--Death.
Hour by hour of that long day the rain fell down--pouring, pouring--shutting us up, as it were, from the world without, and obliterating every thought, save of what was happening under our one roof--that awful change which was taking place in the upper room, in the other half of the house, whence the moans descended, and whence Mrs.Tod came out from time to time, hurrying mournfully to inform "Mr.
Halifax" how things went on.
It was nearly dusk before she told us Mr.March was asleep, that his daughter had at last been persuaded to come down-stairs, and was standing drinking "a cup o' tea" by the kitchen fire.
"You must go now, sir; she'll not stop five minutes.

Please go." "I will," he answered; but he turned frightfully pale.