Even for this hard nature the sanctity of the grave had some softening influence. The linendraper’s wife could afford to think a little more indulgently of the spoiled and petted beauty whose loveliness had been so bitter to her, now that she knew her rival had passed into those shadowy regions where earthly charms count for so little. Some faint touch of tenderness, some memory of her own youth--when Bayham was gayer and more pleasant, and even the sands and the sea had seemed brighter to her than now--came back to the grim, purse-proud tradeswoman, and one solitary tear glittered in her stern, gray eye. She brushed it away quickly, ashamed of the human emotion. “You can tell me nothing more respecting the man who lured your friend from her home?” “Nothing. Celia told me that the name by which we knew him was an assumed one, but she never told me his real name. I don’t believe that even she knew it. She told me that he was very grand and very rich; and it was easy for any one to discover from his conversation that he was a gentleman, and had travelled half over the world.” “Do you remember the title of the book that he had written?” Mrs. Willows shook her head. “In one or more volumes?” “In one volume. I have seen it in Celia’s hand. Mr. Hardwick gave her a copy of it, bound in green morocco.” “Had Miss Mayfield any other friend than yourself?” Eustace asked, after a brief pause. “Was there any one else in whom she would have been likely to confide?” “No one else. Society in Bayham is very limited. Mr. Mayfield was so wrapped up in his daughter, and had such high ideas, on account of being the son of a clergyman, that he scarcely thought any one good enough to associate with her. I was Celia’s only female friend.” “I hope you will think more tenderly of her in future,” said Eustace, gently; “she is now beyond all human praise or blame, and the turf will lie none the less lightly above her grave, let the world judge her never so harshly. But I, who knew her and loved her, would like to think that the companion of her youth remembered her kindly.” A second solitary tear bedewed the eye of Mrs. Willows. “I’m sure I bear no malice,” she said, in an injured tone. “If Celia and I were at variance for some months before she left, it was more her fault than mine, for I gave her the best advice, and gave it with the best intentions. But I am quite willing to forget all that. Do you know if the gentleman who called himself Mr. Hardwick really did marry her? People in Bayham concluded, by her not coming back, that she was altogether deceived and deluded by his fine promises; and it was said her father’s heart was broken by her conduct. He died very soon after, as you may be aware; and his wife did not long survive him.” “I know very little of your friend’s sad story,” answered Eustace; “but I know that her life for twenty years was as pure as the life of an angel--as self-denying as that of a saint.”