Cranford

“‘I have borrowed the nets from the weir, Miss Matty. Shall we drag the ponds to-night, or wait for the morning?’ “I remember staring in his face to gather his meaning; and when I did, I laughed out loud. The horror of that new thought— our bright, darling Peter, cold, and stark, and dead! I remember the ring of my own laugh now. “The next day Deborah was at home before I was myself again. She would not have been so weak as to give way as I had done; but my screams (my horrible laughter had ended in crying) had roused my sweet dear mother, whose poor wandering wits were called back and collected as soon as a child needed her care. She and Deborah sat by my bedside; I knew by the looks of each that there had been no news of Peter— no awful, ghastly news, which was what I most had dreaded in my dull state between sleeping and waking. “The same result of all the searching had brought something of the same relief to my mother, to whom, I am sure, the thought that Peter might even then be hanging dead in some of the familiar home places had caused that never-ending walk of yesterday. Her soft eyes never were the same again after that; they had always a restless, craving look, as if seeking for what they could not find. Oh! it was an awful time; coming down like a thunder-bolt on the still sunny day when the lilacs were all in bloom.”