About two weeks afterward the Mowbrays called again. Edith was a little surprised at this, for she had not expected another visit; but on the whole she felt glad, and could not help indulging in some vague hope that this call would be for her good.

“I am sorry,” said she to Mrs. Mowbray, “that I have not been able to return your call. But I have already explained how I am imprisoned here.”

{Illustration: “IT WAS A CHILD."}

“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “pray don't speak of that. We feel for you, I assure you. Nothing is more unpleasant than a bereavement. It makes such a change in all one's life, you know. And then black does not become some people; they persist in visiting, too; but then, do you know, they really look to me like perfect frights. Not that you look otherwise than well, dear Miss Dalton. In fact, I should think that in any dress you would look perfectly charming; but that is because you are a brunette. Some complexions are positively out of all keeping with black. Have you ever noticed that? Oh yes, dear Miss Dalton,” continued Mrs. Mowbray, after a short pause. “Brunettes are best in black—mark my words, now; and blondes are never effective in that color. They do better in bright colors. It is singular, isn't it? You, now, my dear, may wear black with impunity; and since you are called on in the mysterious dispensation of Providence to mourn, you ought at least to be grateful that you are a brunette. If you were a blonde, I really do not know what would ever become of you. Now, I am a blonde—but in spite of that I have been called on to mourn. It—it was a child.”

As Mrs. Mowbray said this she applied the handkerchief and smelling-bottle for a few minutes.

“A child!” said Edith, in wonder.

“Yes, dear—a sweet son, aged twelve, leaving me to mourn over him. And as I was saying, my mourning did not become my complexion at all. That was what troubled me so. Really, a blonde ought never to lose friends—it is so unbecoming. Positively, Providence ought to arrange things differently.”

“It would be indeed well if blondes or any other people could be saved from sorrow,” said Edith.

“It would be charming, would it not?” said Mrs. Mowbray. “Now, when my child died, I mourned for him most deeply—indeed, as deep as that,” she said, stretching out her hands so as to measure a space of about eighteen inches—“most deeply: a border around the skirt of solid crape half a yard wide; bonnet smothered in crape; and really and positively I myself was literally all crape, I do believe; and with my light complexion, what people could have thought, I'm sure I do not know.”

“There is not much to choose between mother and son,” thought Edith. “They are capable of any baseness, they are so heartless. There is no hope here.” Yet in spite of such thoughts she did not shun them. Why not? How could an honorable nature like hers associate with such people? Between them and herself was a deep gulf, and no sympathy between them was possible. The reason why she did not shun them lay solely in her own loneliness. Any thing in the shape of a human being was welcome rather than otherwise, and even people whom she despised served to mitigate the gloom of her situation. They made the time pass by, and that of itself was something.

“I went into half-mourning as soon as I could,” continued Mrs. Mowbray; “but even half-mourning was very disagreeable. You may depend upon it, no shade of black ought ever to be brought near a blonde. Half-mourning is quite as bad as deep mourning.”

“You must have had very much to bear,” said Edith, absently.

“I should think I had. I really could not go into society, except, of course, to make calls, for that one must do, and even then I felt like a guy—for how absurd I must have looked with such an inharmonious adjustment of colors! But you, my dear Miss Dalton, seem made by nature to go in mourning.”

“Yes,” said Edith, with a sigh which she could not suppress; “nature has been lavish to me in that way—of late.”

“You really ought always to mourn,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly tone.

“I'm afraid I shall always have to, whether I wish it or not,” said Edith, with another sigh.

“You are such a remarkable brunette—quite an Italian; your complexion is almost olive, and your hair is the blackest I ever saw. It is all dark with you.”

“Yes, it is indeed all dark with me,” said Edith, sadly.

“The child that I lost,” said Mrs. Mowbray, after a pause, “was a very nice child, but he was not at all like my son here. You often find great differences in families. I suppose he resembled one side of the family, and the captain the other.”

“You have lived here for a good many years?” said Edith, abruptly changing the conversation.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “It's a very nice county—don't you think so?”

“I really have not had an opportunity of judging.”

“No? Of course not; you are mourning. But when you are done mourning, and go into society, you will find many very nice people. There are the Congreves, the Wiltons, the Symbolts, and Lord Connomore, and the Earl of Frontington, and a thousand delightful people whom one likes to know.”

“You do not belong to the county, do you?”

“N—no; my family belongs to Berks,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “You don't know any thing about Berks, I suppose? I'm a Fydill.”

“A fiddle?” said Edith, somewhat bewildered, for Mrs. Mowbray pronounced her family name in that way, and appeared to take great pride in it.

“Yes,” said she, “a Fydill—one of the oldest families there. Every one has heard of the Fydills of Berks. I suppose you have never been there, and so have not had the opportunity of hearing about them.”

“No,” said Edith; “I have passed most of my life at school.”

“Of course. You are so deliciously young. And oh, Miss Dalton, what a delightful thing it is to be young! One is so admired, and has so many advantages! It is a sad, sad thing that one grows old so soon. I'm so gray, I'm sure I look like eighty. But, after all, I'm not so very old. There's Lady Poyntz, twice my age, who goes into society most energetically; and old Miss De Frissure, who, by-the-way, is enormously rich, actually rides on horseback, and she is old enough to be my mother; and Mrs. Rannig, the rich widow—you must have heard about her—positively does nothing but dance; and old Mrs. Scott, the brewer's, wife, who has recently come here, whenever she gives balls for her daughters, always dances more than any one. All these people are very much older than I am; and so I say to myself, 'Helen, my dear, you are quite a girl; why shouldn't you enjoy yourself?' And so I do enjoy myself.”

“I suppose, then, that you like dancing?” said Edith, who, in spite of her sadness, found a mournful amusement in the idea of this woman dancing.

“I'm par-tic-u-lar-ly fond of dancing,” said Mrs. Mowbray, with strong emphasis. “Only the young men are so rude! They fly about after young chits of girls, and don't notice me. And so I don't often have an opportunity, you know. But there is a German gentleman here—a baron, my dear—and he is very polite. He sometimes asks me to dance, and I enjoy it very much, only he is so short and fat and bald that I fear he looks very ridiculous. But the young men, Miss Dalton, are very, very neglectful.”

“That is a pity,” said Edith.

“Oh, they are so, I do assure you. Now that is the very thing that I have tried to impress upon the captain. 'My dearest boy,' I have always said, 'mind the ladies. That is the first and highest duty of a true gentleman. Particularly those ladies who are mature. Don't confine your attentions to giddy and thoughtless girls. There are many ladies at every ball of estimable character, and sometimes even of considerable wealth, who deserve your attentions far more than those poor young creatures who have nothing more to recommend them than their childish good looks.' And I trust my son has not failed to profit by my advice. At balls he does not often seek out the young, but rather the old. Indeed, so marked is his preference for married ladies that all the younger ones notice it and resent it, so that they have formed really quite an aversion to him; and now, whether he will or not, he has to dance exclusively with the elder ones. Once he danced with me, and it was a proud moment for me, I assure you.”

“I should think so,” said Edith, with a look at Mowbray. “But still, is it not strange that young ladies should refuse to dance with one who is an officer and a gentleman?”

During the whole of this conversation the captain had said nothing, but had been sitting turning over the leaves of a book, and furtively watching Edith's face and manner. When the conversation turned upon him, however, his face flushed, and he looked angrily at Mrs. Mowbray. At last, as Edith spoke, he started, and said:

“See here, now! I don't think it's altogether the correct thing to make remarks about a gentleman in his presence. I'm aware that ladies are given to gossip, but they generally do it behind a fellow's back. I've done nothing to deserve this just now.”

“There was nothing offensive in my remark,” said Edith, quietly.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “my son is very quick and very sensitive, and very nice on a point of honor. He is the most punc-til-i-ous man you ever saw;” and Mrs. Mowbray held up her hands, lost in amazement at the conception which was in her mind of the punctiliousness of her son. “But, my dear Miss Dalton,” she continued, “he is quick to forgive. He don't bear malice.”

“Haven't I said,” growled Mowbray, “that I don't like this! Talk of me behind my back, if you choose. You can't imagine that it's particularly pleasant for a fellow to sit here and listen to all that rot.”

“But, my son,” said Mrs. Mowbray, fondly, “it's all love.”

“Oh, bother your love!” muttered this affectionate son.

“Well, then, you naughty, sensitive boy,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “I will come here by myself, and tell dear Miss Dalton all about you behind your back. I will tell her about some of your adventures in London, and she will see what a naughty, wicked, rakish fellow you have been. He is sadly like me, dear Miss Dalton—so sensitive, and so fond of society.”

Edith gave a polite smile, but said nothing.

Then the conversation lagged for a little while. At length Edith, full of the idea that Wiggins had sent them for some purpose, and desirous of finding out whether her suspicions were correct or not, said, in a careless tone,

“I suppose you know this Wiggins very well?”

“Mr. Wiggins?” said Mrs. Mowbray, quickly. “Oh yes; my son and he often meet, though for my part I know little or nothing about the man.”

“Pooh!” cried Mowbray, interrupting her. “Miss Dalton, Mrs. Mowbray is so talkative that she often says things that she does not mean, or, at least, things that are liable to mislead others. I have met Wiggins, it is true, but do not imagine that he is a friend of mine. On the contrary, he has reason to hate me quite as much as he hates you. Your idea of any connection between him and me, which I plainly see you hint at, is altogether wrong, and you would not have even suspected this if you knew me better.”

“You came here so easily,” said Edith, “that I very naturally supposed that you were on friendly terms.”

“I come here easily,” said Mowbray, “not because he is my friend, but because he is so afraid of me that he does not dare to keep me back.”

“You understand, then,” said Edith, “that he keeps others back. If you have such power over him, how is it that you can calmly stand by and see him imprison a free-born and a high-born English lady?”

“Oh,” muttered Mowbray, “I don't know any thing about that. He is your guardian, and you are his ward, and the law is a curious thing that I do not understand.”

“Yet Mrs. Mowbray says that you are distinguished for your knowledge of legal points,” said Edith.

Mowbray made no reply, and in a few moments Mrs. Mowbray rose to go.

“Positively,” said she, “my dear Miss Dalton, we must see more of one another; and since your mourning confines you here, I must come often, and I know very well that we shall all be great friends.”

{Illustration: “BECAUSE I BEAT HIM."}