At the end of the first six months of her widowhood she paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Allenham, and it was a cordial to her heart to see poor Caroline, who had always been frightened and subdued at home, the joyous creature she now was. Her adoration of her husband knew no bounds; she thought him the best, the cleverest, the wisest of human beings. Her loving heart had at length found its proper resting-place, and her humble service and devotion would have made any man, except Mr. Allenham, appear in the light of a tyrant. But he was so gentle and so kind, he smiled so gratefully at the little attentions which she incessantly paid him, he so habitually preserved towards her the sort of polished deference with which a man should always treat a woman (in manner, at least, though he need not the more yield to her in deeds and actions), that Ellen began to think it was possible for matrimony to be a much happier state than she had found it. It was not long after her arrival at Longbury, that she was one day walking with her sister and her children in a retired green lane, which was nearly bowered over by the trees on each side, when a gentleman on horseback approached. A widow in her weeds is always an object of some interest, and the horseman was wondering who that graceful creature could be,—he was watching the sportive boundings of her children, without attending to his own path, when a bough knocked off his hat just as he was about to pass, and was trying to ascertain whether the face corresponded with the form he admired. The little boy ran to pick it up, and advanced fearlessly towards the horse. Ellen turned round, half alarmed for her child. The stranger leaped to the ground to receive the hat, saying at the same time, “Thank you, my fine fellow; you are a brave boy.” Ellen looked up with a pleased smile at the commendation of her darling George, and the stranger thought he had never in his life seen so beautiful a vision as that of the young widow with her close cap, her marble forehead, her straight-marked eyebrows, and those lustrous eyes, which gleamed so softly from beneath the hanging crape of her widow’s bonnet. He bowed with profound respect, remounted his horse, and rode on. He longed to look back, but there was something so serenely pure and holy in the expression of her countenance, that he felt it would be almost sacrilege to betray even common admiration. Caroline, whose career as a country town beauty had made her somewhat alive to the glances of passers by, could not help saying to Ellen, “That gentleman seemed quite struck when you turned round; I saw him give a start of surprise, and the colour came into his face.” “Oh, Caroline, how can you talk in that manner? there is something horrid in the notion of a widow exciting any feeling but pity.” Ellen’s delicacy shrank from such an idea, and they proceeded on their way in silence.