Theystartedforhome，MartyandCreedleremainingbehind。ForatimeGraceandherfatherwalkedsidebysidewithoutspeaking。
Itwasjustintheblueofthedawn，andthechillingtoneoftheskywasreflectedinhercold，wetface。Thewholewoodseemedtobeahouseofdeath，pervadedbylosstoitsuttermostlengthandbreadth。Winterbornewasgone，andthecopsesseemedtoshowthewantofhim；thoseyoungtrees，somanyofwhichhehadplanted，andofwhichhehadspokensotrulywhenhesaidthatheshouldfallbeforetheyfell，wereatthatverymomentsendingouttheirrootsinthedirectionthathehadgiventhemwithhissubtlehand。
“Onethingmadeittolerabletousthatyourhusbandshouldcomebacktothehouse。”saidMelburyatlast——“thedeathofMrs。
Charmond。”
“Ah，yes。”saidGrace，arousingslightlytotherecollection，“hetoldmeso。”