She could not do it, and she expressed herself so decidedly, that the colonel looked at her curiously while a cloud passed over his face; and, without meaning to do so, he seemed displeased and out of sorts. He was not accustomed to have his wishes thwarted, and he had set his heart upon taking his wife with him when he visited the Lyles, and after he had told her of his indebtedness to them he thought she ought to go out of deference to his wishes. Surely it was not pride which prompted her unwillingness to call upon such people, for what business had she to be prouder than himself, he thought, and he seemed so moody and silent that Edith detected the change in his manner at once, and resolving to conquer her own personal feelings, went up to him and said: “Howard, I have changed my mind; I will go with you if you wish it.” His face cleared as he said: “Thank you, darling, I am very glad, both because I like to have you with me, and because I know the attention will be sure to please those people. Did I tell you of the little boy to whom Godfrey gave his name, when we stopped there last year on our way to Oakwood? He is always doing such things; has two or three namesakes at home, a thing of which I do not altogether approve, but in the case of these Nesbits I could not oppose it. Shall we start at once? It is only two miles distant; will you walk or ride?” Edith chose to walk, and they set off together across the fresh green fields, and through the quiet, shaded lanes toward the low-thatched cottage where Abelard Lyle was born, and where his mother sat knitting by the door with a placid expression on her calm face, and the sunlight falling on her snowy hair. It would be impossible to describe Edith’s emotions as she walked with her husband through the lanes, and fields, and woods where her boy-lover had so often been, and where he had thought some day to bring her and show her to his mother, and it seemed to her almost as if he was there, moving silently beside her, and once when a leaf rustled at her feet, she started with a nervous cry and clung close to her husband’s arm. And yet it was not regret for the dead which thus affected her. Her life with Abelard was like a far-off dream to her now, a thing apart from herself and her present life, and had her husband known, she would not have felt as she did with that secret on her mind, making her breathe quickly, and grow faint and pale when at last the house was reached and she saw for the first time how humble and poor Abelard’s home had been. Everything pertaining to it, however, was scrupulously neat, and the little grass-plat before the door showed frequent acquaintance with sickle or shears, while the old-fashioned flowers on the narrow border told of good taste in some one. But it was all so small and meagre and poor, and the calico dress of the old lady, knitting on the porch, was faded and patched, and the white kerchief pinned about her neck was darned in several places.