A moment after Mr. Howell appeared, saying to her:
“We are going to ride, Miss Howell, and on Edith’s account, as well as my own, shall be glad of your company. I shall visit the cemetery for one place, and that may not be agreeable, but the remainder of the trip I think you will enjoy.”
Mildred knew she should, and hurrying on her bonnet and shawl, she was soon seated with Mr. Howell and Edith in the only decent carriage the village afforded.
“To the graveyard,” said Mr. Howell, in answer to the driver’s question. “Where shall I drive you first?” and after a rapid ride of a mile or more they stopped before the gate of the enclosure where slept the Dresden dead.
Holding Edith’s hand in hers. Mildred followed whither Richard led, and soon stood by a sunken grave, unmarked by a single token of love, save the handsome stone, on which was inscribed
“Hetty K. Howell,
Aged 19.”
“Hetty Howell!” repeated Mildred. “Who was she?” and she turned inquiringly towards Richard.
He was standing with folded arms and a most touchingly sad expression upon his face, but at her question he started, and unhesitatingly answered, “Hetty Kirby was my wife.”
Mildred had incidentally heard of Hetty Kirby at Beechwood, but never that she was Richard’s wife, and she exclaimed, in some astonishment: