"And they are living at Littleburgh," I said in a sort of dreamy way. It all seemed so queer.
"At Littleburgh, but not in our old home. Walter was dismissed from his situation within a week of being married. Yes, dismissed. He had been falsifying the school accounts. Of course he quite forfeited all hope of another situation as schoolmaster."
"And he has nothing to live on?"
"He has something just now. His wife has a few hundreds of her own. She is an orphan. I suppose they will spend all they have, and then—" Mary sighed. "My poor Walter!" she said. "Yes, I love him still—unhappy boy! But I do not respect him. How can I?"
I don't think I made any answer. I was thinking what an escape I had had of being his wife! That had grown plain to me at last.
"So I have come back to my old haunts," she said, "and to old friends. The question is now—shall I live alone, or will you and your mother live with me?"
"O Mary!—may we?" I cried. "May we—always?"
"I should like it," she answered. "I love your mother dearly—and you too," though I could see that was the afterthought. "Why shouldn't you take to dressmaking?" says she. "But I am afraid there wouldn't be work enough in Claxton."