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IT was the next night after her parting with Erne in the church-yard that poor Emma's ministrations began.
It had been a weary day for her. She had tried hard to lose thought in work, but she had succeeded but poorly even in the midst of the bustle of preparation; and now, when she was sitting alone in the silent room, with Joe moping and brooding, with his head on his hands, before her,--refusing to speak, refusing to go to bed,--her trouble came on her stronger than ever; and, with a feeling nearly like despair, she recalled the happy happy hour she had passed with Erne in the church-yard only two days ago, and saw before her, in the person of poor Joe, brooding sullenly over the dying fire, her life's work,-- the hideous fate to which she had condemned herself in her fanaticism.