ection of voice; "it _does_ seem incredible, does
not it? But at that time, you see, he had not all the desirables--not
quite the pull over other men that he has now; his brother was not dead
or likely to die, and he was only General Tempest, with nothing much
besides his pay."

"_Threw--him--over!_" repeat I, slowly, as if unable yet to grasp
the sense of the phrase.

"We shall _certainly_ be late; the last bell is beginning," says Frank,
impatiently.

I move slowly on. We have reached the turnstile that gives issue from
the park to the road. The smart farmers' wives, the rosy farmers'
daughters, are pacing along through the powdery dust toward the
church-gate.

"Is she a _widow_?" ask I, in a low voice.

He laughs sarcastically.

"A widow indeed, and desolate, eh? No! I believe she has a husband
somewhere about, but she keeps him well out of sight--away in the
colonies. He is there now, I fancy."

"And why is not she with him?" cry I, indignantly; but the moment that
the words are out of my mouth, I hang my head. Might not _she_ ask the
same question with regard to _me_?

"She did not like the _sea_, perhaps," answers Frank, demurely.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A day--two days pass.

"More callers," say I, hearing the sound of wheels, and running to the
window; "I thought we _must_ have exhausted the neighborhood yesterday
and the day before!" I add, sighing.

"_Whoever they are_," says Barbara, anxiously, lifting her head from the
work over which it is bent, "mind you do not ask after their relations!
Think of the man whose wife you inquired after, and found that she had
run away with his groom not a month before!"

"That certainly was one of my unlucky things," answer I, gravely; then,
beginning to laugh--"and I was so _determined_ to know what had become
of her, too."

I am still looking out. It is a soft, smoke-colored day; half an hour
ago, there was a shower--each drop a separate loud patter on the
sycamore-leaves--but now it is fair again. A victoria is coming briskly
up the drive; servants in dark liveries; a smoke-colored parasol that
matches the day.

"Shall I ring, and say 'not at home?'" asks Barbara, stretching out her
hand toward the bell.

"No, no!" cry I, hurriedly, in an altered voice, for the parasol has
moved a little aside, and I have seen the face beneath.

In two minutes the butler enters and announces "Mrs. Huntley," and the
"plain woman--not very young--about thirty--who ca