At the great gates the weeping grandmother received them.
For one day the living and the dead dwelt together in hushed and sorrowful mourning, nor did a word of comfort come to any soul.

The weight of that grief which hung like lead upon the rooms, the stairs, the galleries where her step had lately been so light, was also on every heart; and although we ought to be diviner for our dead, the strength of this condition was not as yet realized.

John had shut himself in his room, and the grandmother went about her household duties silently weeping and trying to put down the angry thoughts which would arise whenever she remembered how stubbornly her daughter-in-law had refused to leave Martha with her, and make her trip to London alone.

She knew it was "well with the child," but Oh the bitter strength of regrets that strain and sicken, Yearning for love that the veil of Death endears.
Jane sat silent, tearless, almost motionless beside her dead daughter.
Now and then John came and tried to comfort the wretched woman, but in her deepest grief, there was a tender motherly strain which he had not thought of and knew not how to answer.

"Her little feet! Her little feet, John! I never let them wander alone or stray even in Hatton streets without a helper and guide.