"But since he signally failed to do so I will see that you do not suffer," said the widow, loftily; "of course, I am not legally compelled to do so, but I will keep you with me and care for you the same as I do for my own daughter, until you marry, which, I trust, will not be long after you lay aside your mourning. A girl as pretty as you, even without fortune, ought to make an early and advantageous settlement in life."
The whiteness of the girl's fair, childish face was again suffused with deep crimson.
"I shall never marry," she answered, sadly, thinking of the lover-husband who had left her months ago, and from whose silence she felt that he must be dead; "never, never!"
"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Arnold, impatiently; "all the girls talk that way, but they marry all the same. I should be sorry to have to take care of you all your life. I expect you and Felise to marry when a suitable parti presents himself. My daughter already has an admirer in New York whom she would do well to accept. He is very old, but then he is a millionaire."
She arose, stately, handsome and dignified.
"Felise and I return to New York Saturday," she said. "Will you be strong enough to accompany us?"
"I am afraid not," said Bonnibel, faintly.
"Very well. Your maid and the housekeeper will take care of you in our absence. I will send you a traveling suit of mourning, and when you feel strong enough you can come to us."
"Yes, madam," Bonnibel answered, and the wealthy widow left the room.