He had made her cry, and he was sorry for it at once, and made her sit down beside him on a rude bench by the path, and said he was hasty and had expected too much from her, who could not of course sympathize with his interest in the Lyles. And Edith listened to him, and felt like a felon who is hiding his secret from the world. Why had she not told him that first day of married life with him? Why had she not shrieked it in his ear and compelled him to hear it? It had been easier then, sure, than it was now, when so much had happened to make it hard, if not impossible. Yes, impossible, she said to herself, as she remembered the bare arms and the fine comb and the talkative Mrs. Nesbit. She could not declare that woman to be her sister-in-law, and she forced the secret still further down into her heart, and when her husband bade her kiss him in token of forgiveness, she kissed him twice, and there was peace between them as they walked arm in arm through the leafy woods and grassy lanes back to their rooms at Alnwick. But Edith’s mind was not at rest. Thoughts of that white-haired, sweet-faced old lady, knitting in the sunshine, were constantly in her mind. She had been cold, almost rude to her, and she wished to make amends,—to leave, if possible, a good impression of herself in Abelard’s old home,—to have his mother’s blessing as a guaranty of happiness in the life before her, and as she lay awake many hours of the night, her thoughts gradually formed themselves into a plan she resolved to carry out. Her husband had been invited to dine at the castle with a party of American gentlemen, who were about to introduce some farming implement to the agent of the estate, who acted as host on the occasion. As no ladies were included, Edith was to be left alone for several hours, and she determined to improve the opportunity for redressing any wrong she might have done to Mrs. Lyle. It was twelve o’clock before her husband left her, and as soon as he was gone she donned her walking-dress, and set off for the cottage near the wood. Fortunately for her Mrs. Nesbit was out, but the old lady sat knitting again on the porch, with little Godfrey Schuyler playing near her on the floor. She recognized Edith, and seemed both glad and surprised to see her. “I wanted to come again,” Edith said, sitting down close beside the woman. “I was not feeling well when I was here yesterday, and I could not talk as I wished to do, but I did not mean it for coldness or pride. Colonel Schuyler is so grateful for what your son did for him, and I—I am interested in you, too,—more even than he can be, and if you like you may tell all about your boy who died in that dreadful manner.”