“I knew your mother,” said Mrs. Marvin to him one day as he sat near her upon the gallery.
“Did you?” he answered, in a rather encouraging way. “When did you know her?”
“When she was young. We were girls together. She was a beauty and I wasn’t, but we were very fond of each other.”
He gave his closed book a sullen look.
“What makes women break so?” he asked. “I don’t see why they break so. She had pretty eyes when she died, but,——”
He drew his handsome black brows down and scowled; and, seeing that he was angry at himself for having spoken, Mrs. Marvin made another remark.
“You miss her very much?” she said, gravely.
He turned his face away.
“She’s better off where she is, I suppose,” he said. “That’s what they always say of dead people.”
And then still frowning he got up and walked away.