red. Mary, dry your eyes, my dear. Try not to think of
this. I am sure there is some one in the next room. And you must try not
to look wretched, for all our sakes--"

"Wretched!" cried Mary, springing up. "I am not wretched." And she turned
with a countenance glowing and full of courage to the door. But there was
no one there,--no visitor lingering in the smaller room as sometimes
happened.

"I thought I heard some one come in," said the vicar's wife. "Didn't you
hear something, Mary? I suppose it is because I am so agitated with all
this, but I could have sworn I heard some one come in."

"There is nobody," said Mary, who, in the shock of the calamity which had
so suddenly changed the world to her, was perfectly calm. She did not
feel at all disposed to cry or "give way." It went to her head with a
thrill of pain, which was excitement as well, like a strong stimulant
suddenly applied; and she added, "I should like to go out a little, if
you don't mind, just to get used to the idea."

"My dear, I will get my hat in a moment--"

"No, please. It is not unkindness; but I must think it over by
myself,--by myself," Mary cried. She hurried away, while Mrs. Bowyer took
another survey of the outer room, and called the servant to know who had
been calling. Nobody had been calling, the maid said; but her mistress
still shook her head.

"It must have been some one who does not ring, who just opens the door,"
she said to herself. "That is the worst of the country. It might be Mrs.
Blunt, or Sophia Blackburn, or the curate, or half-a-dozen people,--and
they have just gone away when they heard me crying. How could I help
crying? But I wonder how much they heard, whoever it was."

VI.

It was winter, and snow was on the ground.

Lady Mary found herself on the road that led through her own village,
going home. It was like a picture of a wintry night,--like one of those
pictures that please the children at Christmas. A little snow sprinkled
on the roofs, just enough to define them, and on the edges of the roads;
every cottage window showing a ruddy glimmer in the twilight; the men
coming home from their work; the children, tied up in comforters and
caps, stealing in from the slides, and from the pond, where they were
forbidden to go; and, in the distance, the trees of the great House
standing up dark, turning the twilight into night. She had a curious
enjoyment in it, simple like that of a child, and a wish to talk to