“Oh!” said Mabin, feeling quite relieved to hear that he had not, as she had supposed, been in the society of the beautiful widow constantly since the day of the accident. “Yes,” he went on. “I was passing by only half an hour ago, when I glanced up at the windows, and Mrs. Dale stopped me to ask if I had heard how you were. And then she asked me in, saying she felt lonely. And so should I, so would any one, in that mouldy old house all alone.” “Poor lady! I am so sorry for her!” said Mabin. Rudolph looked at her quickly. “Do you feel like that about her too?” said he earnestly. “All the other people one meets are either jealous of her beauty, or envious of her handsome turnout, or angry with her for not wanting to make their acquaintance.” “I am very sorry for her,” answered the girl gravely. “I feel certain that she has had some very great sorrow--” “Why, yes, her husband’s death,” suggested Rudolph. “Oh, yes, that of course,” assented Mabin, surprised to find that the universal doubts whether Mrs. Dale really was a widow had infected her also. “But something even more than that, I should think. I have an idea that there is something tragic in her story, if one only knew it.” Rudolph said nothing to this, but he looked at his companion with a quick glance of surprise, as if he himself shared her opinion, and was astonished to find it echoed. They were under the portico now, and as their footsteps sounded on the stone, they saw through the open door into the dark hall and heard Mrs. Dale’s soft voice calling to them. “It takes ever so much longer to get a thing done than to do it one’s self!” she exclaimed brightly, with a sigh, as she came out of the room on the left, and invited them to go in. “I could have brought Miss Rose in in half the time, even if she had fought to get away. Did she fight?” went on Mrs. Dale with arch innocence. They were in the room by this time, and Mabin, coming in out of the glare of the sun, stood for a few seconds without seeing anything. Then her hands were gently taken, and she found herself pushed into a low chair. “Bring her some strawberries, Mr. Bonnington,” said Mrs. Dale. “By the by, I may as well remark that I don’t intend to call you Mr. Bonnington very long. I shall drop into plain ‘Rudolph’ very soon, if only to give a fresh shock to the neighborhood, to whom I am Shocker in ordinary.” “The sooner the better. I can’t understand anybody’s being Mr. Bonnington but my father. Now he looks equal to the dignity, while I don’t. I always feel that there is a syllable too many for me, and that people despise me in consequence.”