“There are two ways of explaining it,” said Mrs. Erwin. “He _may_ have been in earnest, Lydia, and felt that he had no right to be more explicit till you were in the care of your friends. That would be the European way which you consider so bad,” said Mrs. Erwin. “Under the circumstances, it was impossible for him to keep any distance, and all he could do was to postpone his declaration till there could be something like good form about it. Yes, it might have been that.” She was silent, but the troubled look did not leave her face. “I am sorry for you, Lydia,” she resumed, “but I don't know that I wish he was in earnest.” Lydia looked up at her in dismay. “It might be far less embarrassing the other way, however painful. He may not be at all a suitable person.” The tears stood in Lydia's eyes, and all her face expressed a puzzled suspense. “Where was he from?” asked Mrs. Erwin, finally; till then she had been more interested in the lover than the man. “Boston,” mechanically answered Lydia. “What was his name?” “Mr. Staniford,” owned Lydia, with a blush. Her aunt seemed dispirited at the sound. “Yes, I know who they are,” she sighed. “And aren't they nice? Isn't he--suitable?” asked Lydia, tremulously. “Oh, poor child! He's only _too_ suitable. I can't explain to you, Lydia; but at home he wouldn't have looked at a girl like you. What sort of looking person is he?” “He's rather--red; and he has--light hair.” “It must be the family I'm thinking of,” said Mrs. Erwin. She had lived nearly twenty years in Europe, and had seldom revisited her native city; but at the sound of a Boston name she was all Bostonian again. She rapidly sketched the history of the family to which she imagined Staniford to belong. “I remember his sister; I used to see her at school. She must have been five or six years younger than I; and this boy--” “Why, he's twenty-eight years old!” interrupted Lydia. “How came he to tell you?” “I don't know. He said that he looked thirty-four.” “Yes; _she_ was always a forward thing too,--with her freckles,” said Mrs. Erwin, musingly, as if lost in reminiscences, not wholly pleasing, of Miss Staniford. “_He_ has freckles,” admitted Lydia. “Yes, it's the one,” said Mrs. Erwin. “He couldn't have known what your family was from anything you said?” “We never talked about our families.” “Oh, I dare say! You talked about yourselves?” “Yes.” “All the time?” “Pretty nearly.” “And he didn't try to find out who or what you were?” “He asked a great deal about South Bradfield.” “Of course, that was where he thought you had always belonged.” Mrs. Erwin lay quiescent for a while, in apparent uncertainty as to how she should next attack the subject. “How did you first meet?”