“There is not much to choose between mother and son,” thought Edith. “They are capable of any baseness, they are so heartless. There is no hope here.” Yet in spite of such thoughts she did not shun them. Why not? How could an honorable nature like hers associate with such people? Between them and herself was a deep gulf, and no sympathy between them was possible. The reason why she did not shun them lay solely in her own loneliness. Any thing in the shape of a human being was welcome rather than otherwise, and even people whom she despised served to mitigate the gloom of her situation. They made the time pass by, and that of itself was something. “I went into half-mourning as soon as I could,” continued Mrs. Mowbray; “but even half-mourning was very disagreeable. You may depend upon it, no shade of black ought ever to be brought near a blonde. Half-mourning is quite as bad as deep mourning.” “You must have had very much to bear,” said Edith, absently. “I should think I had. I really could not go into society, except, of course, to make calls, for that one _must_ do, and even then I felt like a guy--for how absurd I must have looked with such an inharmonious adjustment of colors! But you, my dear Miss Dalton, seem made by nature to go in mourning.” “Yes,” said Edith, with a sigh which she could not suppress; “nature has been lavish to me in that way--of late.” “You really ought always to mourn,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly tone. “I'm afraid I shall always have to, whether I wish it or not,” said Edith, with another sigh. “You are such a remarkable brunette--quite an Italian; your complexion is almost olive, and your hair is the blackest I ever saw. It is all dark with you.” “Yes, it is indeed all dark with me,” said Edith, sadly. “The child that I lost,” said Mrs. Mowbray, after a pause, “was a very nice child, but he was not at all like my son here. You often find great differences in families. I suppose he resembled one side of the family, and the captain the other.” “You have lived here for a good many years?” said Edith, abruptly changing the conversation. “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “It's a very nice county--don't you think so?” “I really have not had an opportunity of judging.” “No? Of course not; you are mourning. But when you are done mourning, and go into society, you will find many very nice people. There are the Congreves, the Wiltons, the Symbolts, and Lord Connomore, and the Earl of Frontington, and a thousand delightful people whom one likes to know.” “You do not belong to the county, do you?” “N--no; my family belongs to Berks,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “You don't know any thing about Berks, I suppose? I'm a Fydill.” “A fiddle?” said Edith, somewhat bewildered, for Mrs. Mowbray pronounced her family name in that way, and appeared to take great pride in it.