said; and Will Flandin, and Nick, and Mr. Knowlton."

"Was _he_ here more than once?"

"Yes."

"How much more?"

"Mother, how do I know? I didn't keep count."

"Didn't keep count, eh?" Mrs. Starling repeated. "Must have been
frequent company, I judge. Diana, you mind what I told you?"

Diana made no answer.

"You shall have nothing to do with him," Mrs. Starling went on. "You
never shall. You sha'n't take up with any one that holds himself above
me. I'll be glad when his time's up; and I hope it'll be long before
he'll have another. Once he gets away, he'll think no more of _you_,
that's one comfort."

Diana knew that was not true; but it hurt her to have it said. She
could stand no more of her mother's talk; she left her and went off to
the dairy, till Mrs. Starling crept up-stairs again. Then Diana came
and opened the lean-to door and looked out for a breath of refreshment.
The morning was going on its way in beauty. Little clouds drifted over
the deep blue sky; the mellow September light lay on fields and hills;
the long branches of the elm swayed gently to and fro in the gentle air
that drove the clouds. But oh for the wind and the storm of last night,
and the figure that stood beside her before the chimney fire! The
gladsome light seemed to mock her, and the soft breeze gave her touches
of pain. She shut the door and went back to her work.

CHAPTER XIII.

FROM THE POST OFFICE.

Mrs. Starling's room was like her; for use, and not for show, with some
points of pride, and a general air of humble thrift. A patchwork quilt
on the bed; curtains and valance of chintz; a rag carpet covering only
part of the floor, the rest scrubbed clean; rush-bottomed chairs; and
with those a secretary bureau of old mahogany, a dressing-glass in a
dark carved frame, and a large oaken press. There were corner
cupboards; a table holding work and work-basket; a spinning-wheel in a
corner; a little iron stove, but no fire. Mrs. Starling lay down on her
bed, simply because she was not able to sit up any longer; but she was
scarcely less busy, in truth, than she had been down-stairs. Her eyes
roamed restlessly from the door to the window, though with never a
thought of the sweet September sunlight on the brilliant blue sky.

"Diana's queer this morning," she mused. "Yes, she was queer. What made
her so mum? She was not like herself. Sailing round with her head in
the clouds. And a little bit _blue_, too; what Diana ne