"No. Not lately." The eyes were keenly attentive now, the words a little dry. She waited for what was to come next. As Mr. Digby paused, she added, "Do you know her?" "I have known her." "In Medwayville? I did not know you had ever travelled in the western part of the state." "I have never been there. I knew Mrs. Carpenter here, in New York." "In New York!" repeated Mrs. Busby. "She did not tell me-- When did you know her in New York? I was not aware she had ever been here." "She was here the early part of this summer. But she was very ill, and failing constantly; and in July--did you know nothing of it?--she left us all, Mrs. Busby." "My sister? Did she _die_ here? Do you mean that?" Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was determined this time he would not break. "What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her feet. "I am afraid,--the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was." "Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go their own way, and whom nobody can help. She was here several months, then?" "More than that" "More? How much more?" "She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her." "Did she tell you anything of her story?" "Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you were her sister." "Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they charge the fault upon their family." "Mrs. Carpenter did not seem to me inclined to charge fault upon anybody. I never heard anything from her that shewed a censorious spirit." Mrs. Busby opened her lips, and pressed them a little closer together. Evidently she was minded to ask no more questions. Mr. Digby went on. "Mrs. Carpenter had a daughter--" "I know she had a daughter," Mrs. Busby said briskly. "Is she living?" "Certainly." "Pray, how old?" "About--I believe, about fifteen." "Where is she?" "She is here." "_Here!_ In whose care? and where is she?" "She is in my care. It is about her I wished to speak to you." "In _your_ care! But Mr. Southwode, that is very strange! How came my sister to leave her child in your care?" "She honoured me, I believe, with so much trust as to believe I would be a faithful guardian," Mr. Digby said, with his extremely composed gravity.