It had been over so long that she had even ceased to regret it--for she was not by nature one of the women who could wear mourning for a lifetime.
The door opened: Archibald Fowler came in very slowly; and the first sight of his face brought home to her with a shock the discovery that he was the one of them who had suffered most.

He looked an old man; his gentle scholar's face had taken an ashen hue; and his eyes were the eyes of one who has only partially recovered from the blow that has prostrated him.
"My dear child," he said; "my dear daughter," and laid his hand on her shoulder.
She clung to him, feeling a passionate pity, not for herself, but for him.

"You have too much to bear," she murmured caressingly.

"You mustn't take it like this.

You must try to get over it.