She broke off, not deeming it necessary to disclose, on so short an acquaintance, her peculiar relations with the person in question.
‘Good!’ cried the young man gaily. ‘It is strange our meeting like this. I am Richard Marshall, his nephew. You live next door to him, you say,’ he added, with a puzzled look; ‘then you must be—you are—?’
‘I am Mrs. Fiander,’ returned she. ‘You remember Elias Fiander, of Littlecomb Farm?’
‘Of course I do; and I used to know his wife.’
‘Oh, you have been so long away that a great many changes have taken place. I was Elias Fiander’s third wife.’
‘Was?’ cried he.
‘Yes,’ said Rosalie blushing, she knew not why. ‘My dear husband died last July.’
The look of blank dismay which had overspread the young man’s face gave way to an expression of relief; but he made no reply.
Rosalie took hold of the nearest rein, turned Nigger round, and began to lead him slowly up the hill again.
‘I can really manage quite well,’ she said, somewhat stiffly.