I spent the morning on our piazza, and as I lay there, listening to the faint strains of familiar hymns which floated to me through the open windows of our village church, I could not help thinking that those peaceful sounds made a strange accompaniment to my gloomy and distracted thoughts. I longed to see May and judge for myself how things stood with her. I was therefore especially glad after the service was over to see Mrs. Derwent turn in at our gate. She often drops in on her way from church to chat a few minutes with my mother. But I soon became convinced that the real object of her visit to-day was to see me. Why, I could not guess. The dear lady, usually so calm and dignified, positively fidgeted, and several times forgot what she was saying, and remained for a minute or so with her large eyes fastened silently upon me, till, noticing my embarrassment, she recovered herself with a start and plunged into a new topic of conversation. At last my mother, feeling herself de trop, made some excuse, and went into the house. But even then Mrs. Derwent did not immediately speak, but sat nervously clasping and unclasping her long, narrow hands.
“Fred,” she said at last, “I have known you ever since you were a little boy, and as I am in great trouble I have come to you, hoping that you will be able to help me.”
“Dear Mrs. Derwent, you know there is nothing I would not do for you and yours,” I replied.
“It is May that I want to speak to you about; she is really very ill, I fear.”
“Indeed, I am sorry to hear it; what is the matter with her?”
“I don’t know. She has not been herself for some time.”
“So I hear. Do you know of any reason for her ill health?”
“She has not been exactly ill,” she explained, “only out of sorts. Yes, I’m afraid I do know why she has changed so lately.”
“Really,” I exclaimed, much interested.