It was still May. They spoke the praises of the day whose sun was just setting. And Mary commended the house, the convenience of its construction, its salubrity; and also, and especially, the excellence and goodness of Madame Zénobie. What a complete and satisfactory arrangement! Was it not? Did not the Doctor think so?
But the Doctor’s affirmative responses were unfrequent, and quite without enthusiasm; and Mary’s face, wearing more cheer than was felt within, betrayed, moreover, the feeling of one who, having done the best she knew, falls short of commendation.
She was once more in deep black. Her face was pale, and some of its lines had yielded up a part of their excellence. The outward curves of the rose had given place to the inward curves of the lily—nay, hardly all that; for as she had never had the full red queenliness of the one, neither had she now the severe sanctitude of the other; that soft glow of inquiry, at once so blithe and so self-contained, so modest and so courageous, humble, yet free, still played about her saddened eyes and in her tones. Through the glistening sadness of those eyes smiled resignation; and although the Doctor plainly read care about them and about the mouth, it was a care that was forbearing to feed upon itself, or to take its seat on her brow. The brow was the old one; that is, the young. The joy of life’s morning was gone from it forever; but a chastened hope was there, and one could see peace hovering just above it, as though it might in time alight. Such were the things that divided her austere friend’s attention as she sat before him, seeking, with timid smiles and interrogative argument, for this new beginning of life some heartiness of approval from him.
“Doctor,” she plucked up courage to say at last, with a geniality that scantily hid the inner distress, “you don’t seem pleased.”
“I can’t say I am, Mary. You’ve provided for things in sight; but I see no provision for unseen contingencies. They’re sure to come, you know. How are you going to meet them?”
“Well,” said Mary, with slow, smiling caution, “there’s my two thousand dollars that you’ve put at interest for me.”
“Why, no; you’ve already counted the interest on that as part of your necessary income.”
“Doctor, ‘the Lord will provide,’ will he not?”
“No.”
“Why, Doctor!”—