apa says he'll be all well in
three months."

"And he's staying at your house, and under your dear father's care?"

"Yes, he is now. Before his accident he was boarding at Abbie's, down in
the village. She would have been very kind to him, of course, but I
suppose he'd rather be at our house, because papa can always be at
hand."

While Cornelia was delivering this into the black ear-trumpet, she
turned her eyes away from Aunt Margaret's face, being in truth somewhat
embarrassed at talking so much about the man who had her heart.
Consequently she did not observe the expression which crossed her
companion's face at her mention of the modest name of the boarding-house
keeper. Her features seemed to contract and sharpen, and there was
positively a glitter in her watery eyes, seemingly mingled of
consternation, astonishment, and hatred. In another moment the
expression had passed away, or was softened into one of nervous alarm
and anxiety; and even this, when she spoke, was wellnigh effaced.

"Certainly--yes, _certainly_! your dear father--_what_ a wise man he is!
he _has_ such a profound knowledge of medicine and surgery--all those
things--so prudent, so careful! Still, a woman is a treasure, you
know--a good, sensible, efficient woman is a _host_--oh, yes, in a
sick-room. This boarding-house keeper, now--she's just such a person, I
_dare_ say--elderly, sober, experienced--a married woman, probably, with
a large family, no doubt? Abbie, Abbie! what _did_ you say her last name
was, my love?"

Cornelia was so much amused at the idea of Abbie's being a married
woman with a large family that she did not observe how Aunt Margaret,
awaiting her answer, was all in a tremble. If she had not been laughing,
she could scarcely have helped seeing how the ear-trumpet shook as it
was presented to her.

"Oh, no," said she, "she's not married, Aunt Margaret--at least not now,
though I believe she's a widow, or something of that kind, you know--and
she hasn't any children at all! As to her other name, I don't know it,
and I believe hardly any one does. You see, she's one of that queer sort
of people; she's very quiet, and always grave, and nobody knows much
about her, except that she's very good, and has lived in the village for
twenty years and more. I believe, though, papa has met her before, or
knows something about her in some way; but he never says any thing to us
on the subject."

This was all that could be got out of Corneli