“Because you look as if you were—but I wish you wouldn’t go so often.”
“Nonsense, child! I don’t go once in six weeks—what do you mean?”
“Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do with Mrs. Graham.”
“Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?”
“No,” returned she, hesitatingly—“but I’ve heard so much about her lately, both at the Wilsons’ and the vicarage;—and besides, mamma says, if she were a proper person she would not be living there by herself—and don’t you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the picture; and how she explained it—saying she had friends or acquaintances from whom she wished her present residence to be concealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out;—and then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person came—whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse of, and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his mamma’s friend?”
“Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable conclusions; for, perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put all these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank God, I do know her; and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe anything that was said against her, unless I heard it from her own lips.—I should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.”
“Oh, Gilbert!”
“Well, do you think I could believe anything of the kind,—whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?”
“I should hope not indeed!”
“And why not?—Because I know you—Well, and I know her just as well.”