"Follow her, George," said his father, in a loud, eager whisper.
"You've got to comfort her now. That's your business, George.
There's your chance!"
The last words he called from the bottom of the stair, as George
sped up after her. "Mary! Mary, dear," he called as he ran.
But Mary had the instinct--it was hardly more--to quicken her
pace, and lock the door of her room the moment she entered. As
she turned from it, her eye fell upon her watch--where it lay,
silent and disfigured, on her dressing-table; and, with the
sight, the last words of her father came back to her. She fell
again on her knees with a fresh burst of weeping, and, while the
foolish youth was knocking unheard at her door, cried, with a
strange mixture of agony and comfort, "O my Father in heaven,
give me back William Marston!" Never in his life had she thought
of her father by his name; but death, while it made him dearer
than ever, set him away from her so, that she began to see him in
his larger individuality, as a man before the God of men, a son
before the Father of many sons: Death turns a man's sons and
daughters into his brothers and sisters. And while she kneeled,
and, with exhausted heart, let her brain go on working of itself,
as it seemed, came a dreamy vision of the Saviour with his
disciples about him, reasoning with them that they should not
give way to grief.
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