I had remained with them at the cottage⁠—I had tried hard not to embitter the happiness of my return to them as it was embittered to me . I had done all man could to rise after the shock, and accept my life resignedly⁠—to let my great sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and not in despair. It was useless and hopeless. No tears soothed my aching eyes, no relief came to me from my sister’s sympathy or my mother’s love.

On that third morning I opened my heart to them. At last the words passed my lips which I had longed to speak on the day when my mother told me of her death.

“Let me go away alone for a little while,” I said. “I shall bear it better when I have looked once more at the place where I first saw her⁠—when I have knelt and prayed by the grave where they have laid her to rest.”

I departed on my journey⁠—my journey to the grave of Laura Fairlie.