We did not see anything more of her that day.
On Monday a message came, saying that Miss March would be glad to speak with us both.

Of course we went.
She was sitting quite alone, in our old parlour, very grave and pale, but perfectly composed.

A little more womanly-looking in the dignity of her great grief, which, girl as she was, and young men as we were, seemed to be to her a shield transcending all worldly "proprieties." As she rose, and we shook hands, in a silence only broken by the rustle of her black dress, not one of us thought--surely the most evil-minded gossip could not have dared to think--that there was anything strange in her receiving us here.

We began to talk of common things--not THE thing.

She seemed to have fought through the worst of her trouble, and to have put it back into those deep quiet chambers where all griefs go; never forgotten, never removed, but sealed up in silence, as it should be.