"But, thank God!" said Lang fervently, "they never could make the yellow--that secret is dark enough still. I shall always believe it was some blackguard from their place frightened you that morning. I beg pardon, you were not frightened, though any other lady would have been." And then they had much more talk, which I have not space to repeat, even if I thought it could prove interesting, and she sent the man away with her photograph carefully placed in a new pocket-book, in anticipation of becoming his own employer. "Hang it up in some place for the children to see," said Dolly; and it does hang up now, duly framed and glazed, where not merely the children, but all visitors can behold the likeness of Mortomley's faithful wife, which is a digression from the elderly lady with white sausage-like curls, who happened to be Mrs. Asherill. One day Dolly was sitting on the beach as usual, when she beheld her nameless friend walking towards her arm-in-arm with Mr. Asherill. Then Dolly, instinctively guessing the lady with whom she had passed a few pleasant half hours was the wife of that detested man, kept her eyes so fastened on the book lying in her lap that Mr. Asherill had a chance of passing by in silence, of which chance he availed himself. Not the next morning, which was Sunday, but the next but one, Mrs. Asherill called at the cottage and asked to see Mrs. Mortomley, whom she found sitting in an easy-chair near the window. "I was not well enough to go to the beach to-day," said Dolly, holding out her hand. "How good of you to come here!" "I could not rest without coming," was the reply. "It seems dreadful that two people like you and my husband should so misunderstand each other, as I am afraid is the case." "Do we misunderstand each other?" asked Mrs. Mortomley. "Sit down, Mrs. Asherill, and imagine I am little Peterkin, and tell me 'what they killed each other for.'" "I do not know exactly what you mean, my dear," remarked the elder woman, "but I have felt miserable ever since Saturday. My husband spoke about you bitterly as I have never heard him speak about any one before, and told me to walk in some other direction so that I might not have to speak to you again." "And what did you tell him?" asked Dolly cheerfully. "Oh! I made no reply. I meant to call and ask you when and why you had quarrelled, as I should so much like you and my dear, good, kind husband to be friends." "Come," thought Dolly, "the man has one good point, he is kind to a woman neither young nor handsome; but perhaps she has money." Which conjecture was true; but, on the other hand, he had been kind and tender to a woman without a sixpence--always ailing, always complaining, to whom he gave the best cup of tea--in those days of bitter griping poverty mentioned far, far back in this story.