"How could she?" moaned Mrs. White; "why, oh, why has she done this?"
Paul had hard questions to ask, hard for him as well as for her.
"Mrs. White," he said, "you have shown me Lizzie's letter; will you let me help you if I can?"
"Yes, yes!" she answered eagerly, raising her tearful eyes. The very proffer of sympathy and assistance helped to restore her to some degree of composure, and she opened the door to the sitting-room. "I forgot where we were," she said apologetically; "please come in and sit down."
Paul complied, and, still with the letter in his hand, began: "I shall have to ask questions that would be impertinent if you had not said that I might try to help you. Do you—was Lizzie engaged?"
"Oh, no!" replied Mrs. White, with a little gasp; "what made you think so?"
"I don't think so, and what I really tried to ask was whether she were in love with anybody?"
Mrs. White looked doubtfully at him. Her eyes were dry now, and she toyed nervously with her apron.
"My daughter didn't tell me she was going away," she answered slowly after a minute; "if she wouldn't tell me that, how should you expect that she would speak to me of her love—if she did love anybody?"