"My dear," she whispered, "God will give you strength to bear this awful
trial."
Dora recovered her breath and re-arranged her crushed habiliments before
inquiring, with just sufficient feeling to save her from downright
rudeness, "What is the matter; has something else happened?"
Sister Cecilia drew back. She was vaguely conscious of having run
mentally against a brick wall. There was something new and unusual about
Dora which she could not understand--something, if she could only have
seen it, suggestive of the quiet, strong man in whose honour the whole
parish wore mourning. But Sister Cecilia was not a subtle woman. She had
had so little experience of the world, of men and of women, that she fell
easily into the error of thinking that they were all to be treated alike
and with equal success by little maxims culled from fourpenny-halfpenny
devotional books.
"No, dear," she exclaimed; "I was referring to our terrible loss. My
heart has been bleeding for you--"
"It is very kind, I'm sure," said Dora quietly; "I forgot that I had not
seen you since the news reached us.
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