"Here, it is not actually quite a week since he was buried, and Abbie must needs make herself and her family appear perfectly ridiculous by making her advent in public."
Mr. Ried came to an upright posture, and even Ralph asked a startled question:
"Where is she going?"
"Why, where do you suppose, but to that absurd little prayer-meeting, where she always would insist upon going every Thursday evening. I used to think it was for the pleasure of a walk home with Mr. Foster; but why she should go to-night is incomprehensible to me."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Ried, settling back into the cushions. "A large public that will be. I thought at the very least she was going to the opera. If the child finds any comfort in such an atmosphere, where's the harm? Let her go."
"Where's the harm! Now, Mr. Ried, that is just as much as you care for appearances sometimes, and at other times you can be quite as particular as I am; though I certainly believe there is nothing that Abbie might take a fancy to do that you would not uphold her in."
Mr. Ried's reply was uttered in a tone that impressed one with the belief that he was uttering a deliberate conviction.
"You are quite right as regards that, I suspect. At least I find myself quite unable to conceive of any thing connected with her that could by any twisting be made other than just the thing."
Mrs. Ried's exasperated answer was cut short by the entrance of Abbie, attired as for a walk or ride, the extreme pallor of her face and the largeness of her soft eyes enhanced by the deep mourning robes which fell around her like the night.
"Now, Abbie," said Mrs. Ried, turning promptly to her, "I did hope you had given up this strangest of all your strange whims. What will people think?"