Then he hesitated, groping for the name. 'Mrs.,' said Dolly, sweetly correcting him, her hand in his. 'Ah, I beg your pardon. Married. These introductions--especially in that noisy wind.' 'No--not exactly married,' said Dolly, still sweetly correcting him, her hand still in his. 'Not exactly--?' 'My sister has lost her--my sister is a widow,' said Mrs. Barnes hastily and nervously; alas, these complications of Dolly's! 'Indeed. Indeed. Sad, sad,' said my uncle sympathetically, continuing to hold her hand. 'And so young. Ah. Yes. Well, good night then, Mrs--' But again he had to pause and grope. 'Jewks,' said Dolly sweetly. 'Forgive me. You may depend I shall not again be so stupid. Good night. And may the blessed angels--' A third time he stopped; pulled up, I suppose, by the thought that it was perhaps not quite seemly to draw the attention of even the angels to an unrelated lady's bed. So he merely very warmly shook her hand, while she smiled a really heavenly smile at him. We left him standing with his back to the fire watching us go up the stairs, holding almost tenderly, for one must expend one's sympathy on something, a glass of hot water. My uncle is very sympathetic. In matters that do not touch his own advancement he is all sympathy. That is why widows like him, I expect. My aunt would have known the reason if she hadn't been his wife. _October 1st._ While I dress it is my habit to read. Some book is propped up open against the looking-glass, and sometimes, for one's eyes can't be everywhere at once, my hooks in consequence don't get quite satisfactorily fastened. Indeed I would be very neat if I could, but there are other things. This morning the book was the Bible, and in it I read, _A prudent man_--how much more prudently, then, a woman--_foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the simple pass on and are punished._ This made me late for breakfast. I sat looking out of the window, my hands in my lap, the sensible words of Solomon ringing in my ears, and considered if there was any way of escaping the fate of the simple. There was no way. It seemed hard that without being exactly of the simple I yet should be doomed to their fate. And outside it was one of those cold windy mornings when male relations insist on taking one for what they call a run--as if one were a dog--in order to go through the bleak process they describe as getting one's cobwebs blown off. I can't bear being parted from my cobwebs. I never want them blown off. Uncle Rudolph is small and active, besides having since my aunt's death considerably dwindled beneath his apron, and I felt sure he intended to run me up the mountain after breakfast, and, having got me breathless and speechless on to some cold rock, sit with me there and say all the things I am dreading having to hear.