"Oh! twenty-four hours at sea picked her up. She is an awfully good sailor and never missed a meal; and amused herself, I can tell you, 'pretty considerable,' as we say over here—having three men, all very much gone on her."
Mrs. Frampton laughed heartily.
"And you have been staying with the parents of one of them—the young man you say is a prig?"
"I didn't say that," responded Grace, quickly. "I said you might call him so. He is a very remarkable young man, and I like him exceedingly; but I am much afraid he will not live long. He is sadly changed, even since we were on board ship together. His poor mother's face haunts me. He is her only son."
The mocking expression of Aunt Susan's countenance changed while her niece was speaking. The eyes were veiled with a tender sympathy, which contrasted curiously with their habitual outlook. She, too, had known what this sorrow meant, long years ago.
"Poor woman! And is there nothing to be done?"
"Perhaps if he went to a warm climate, and gave up his professorship, he might recover, but that is just what he won't do."
"Then he doesn't really love his mother!" she cried, impatiently. "These Americans are all alike—can't rest—must fret themselves to fiddle-strings. The idea of a man sacrificing his life to his work! It is positively wicked."
"I suspect he is a romantic sort of cove, who fancies there is only one woman in the world," said her nephew, fixing his eyes on Grace. "If he is disappointed, he doesn't care to live. I have known one chap like that. It's very rum."
His sister said nothing. She rose and went to the window, where the curtains had not been dropped before the gas-lit street. A well-appointed brougham stood at the door. Grace thought she recognized the horses, and at the same moment the negro waiter entered and asked if the ladies were at home to Mrs. Courtly.