s present there a single
married lady who, on leaving the building, did not speak to her
husband of the widow. There had prevailed during the whole two hours
a general though unexpressed conviction that something worthy of
remark had happened that morning. It had an effect even upon the
curate's reading; and the incumbent, while preaching his sermon,
could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet and veil.

On the next morning, before eleven, Mrs Greenow's name was put down
at the Assembly Room. "I need hardly say that in my present condition
I care nothing for these things. Of course I would sooner be alone.
But, my dear Kate, I know what I owe to you."

Kate, with less intelligence than might have been expected from one
so clever, began to assure her aunt that she required no society;
and that, coming thus with her to the seaside in the early days of
her widowhood, she had been well aware that they would live retired.
But Mrs Greenow soon put her down, and did so without the slightest
feeling of shame or annoyance on her own part. "My dear," she said,
"in this matter you must let me do what I know to be right. I should
consider myself to be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere
with your amusements."

"But, aunt, I don't care for such amusements."

"That's nonsense, my dear. You ought to care for them. How are you to
settle yourself in life if you don't care for them?"

"My dear aunt, I am settled."

"Settled!" said Mrs Greenow, astounded, as though there must have
been some hidden marriage of which she had not heard. "But that's
nonsense. Of course you're not settled; and how are you to be, if I
allow you to shut yourself up in such a place as this,--just where a
girl has a chance?"

It was in vain that Kate tried to stop her. It was not easy to stop
Mrs Greenow when she was supported by the full assurance of being
mistress of the place and of the occasion. "No, my dear; I know very
well what I owe to you, and I shall do my duty. As I said before,
society can have no charms now for such a one as I am. All that
social intercourse could ever do for me lies buried in my darling's
grave. My heart is desolate, and must remain so. But I'm not going to
immolate you on the altars of my grief. I shall force myself to go
out for your sake, Kate."

"But, dear aunt, the world will think it so odd, just at present."

"I don't care twopence for the world. What can the world do to me?
I'm not dependent on t