“I do, sometimes,” replied she. “On winter evenings, when Arthur is in bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round me and howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or occupations can repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come crowding in—but it is folly to give way to such weakness, I know. If Rachel is satisfied with such a life, why should not I?—Indeed, I cannot be too thankful for such an asylum, while it is left me.”
The closing sentence was uttered in an under-tone, as if spoken rather to herself than to me. She then bid me good-evening and withdrew.
I had not proceeded many steps on my way homewards when I perceived Mr. Lawrence, on his pretty grey pony, coming up the rugged lane that crossed over the hill-top. I went a little out of my way to speak to him; for we had not met for some time.
“Was that Mrs. Graham you were speaking to just now?” said he, after the first few words of greeting had passed between us.
“Yes.”
“Humph! I thought so.” He looked contemplatively at his horse’s mane, as if he had some serious cause of dissatisfaction with it, or something else.
“Well! what then?”
“Oh, nothing!” replied he. “Only I thought you disliked her,” he quietly added, curling his classic lip with a slightly sarcastic smile.
“Suppose I did; mayn’t a man change his mind on further acquaintance?”
“Yes, of course,” returned he, nicely reducing an entanglement in the pony’s redundant hoary mane. Then suddenly turning to me, and fixing his shy, hazel eyes upon me with a steady penetrating gaze, he added, “Then you have changed your mind?”