sclosures did not violate the reticence
imposed upon him by that hour in which he had beheld a woman's
remorseful anguish; he spoke only of such things as were manifest to
everyone who had known Mary Abbott before her husband's death; of her
social pleasures, her intellectual ambitions, suddenly overwhelmed by a
great sorrow.

'I suppose she ought to be doing much better things than teaching
children,' said Alma.

'Better things?' repeated Harvey, musing. 'I don't know. It all depends
how you regard it.'

'Is she very clever?'

'Not appallingly,' he answered, with a laugh. 'It's very possible she
is doing just what she ought to be--neither more nor less. Her health
seems to be the weak point.'

'Do you think she has enough to live upon?'

Harvey knitted his brows and looked uneasy.

'I hope so. Of course it must be a very small income; but I dare say
those friends of hers at Gunnersbury make life a little easier.'

'I feel quite sorry for her,' said Alma, with cheerfulness. 'I hadn't
realised her position. We must make her stay as long as she can. Yes,
if it's fine again, we might drive to Tre'r Caeri. That would interest
her, no doubt. She likes history, doesn't she?--the same things that
you are fond of.'

At breakfast Mrs. Abbott appeared with a much brighter countenance;
refreshed in body and mind, she entered gladly into the plans that had
been made for the day, talked with less restraint, and showed an
interest in all her surroundings. But her demeanour still had the air
of self-subdual which seemed at moments to become a diffidence
bordering on humility. This was emphasised by its contrast with the
bearing of her hostess. Alma had never shown herself to more brilliant
advantage; kind interpretation might have thought that she had set
herself to inspirit the guest in every possible way. Her face was
radiant with good humour and vivacity; she looked the incarnation of
joyous, healthy life. The flow of her spirited talk seemed to aim at
exhibiting the joys and privileges of existence in places such as this.
She represented herself as glorying in the mountain heights, and in
solitary tracts of shore. Here were no social burdens, or restrictions,
or extravagances; one lived naturally, simply, without regrets for
wasted time, and without fear of the morrow. To all this Mary Abbott
paid the tribute of her admiration, perhaps of her envy; and Alma grew
the more animated, the more she felt that she had impress