"Even the most devoted husband cannot grieve for ever, and three years is a good while. Now Mr. Mitchelson is coming back, and bringing a party of friends with him. Let us hope he may find another fair bride to comfort him. I was just thinking what a chance it would be for one of your charming girls. Only—" and here Miss Chatterton became confidential and particularly distinct—"you must mind that handsome Mr. Gilmour does not steal a march on you. You must wish such charming and accomplished girls to settle well. And really it would be a sad mistake if—"
Mrs. Manning could listen no longer. In her own inmost heart she might be ambitious and build castles for her children to inhabit, but to hear such allusions as these was more than she could endure.
"Excuse me, Miss Chatterton," she said, with heightening colour, "I would rather that you would leave my daughters out of any speculations you may enter into respecting Mr. Mitchelson's future. As to Mr. Gilmour, I can only say that he comes here as my brother-in-law's guest and friend."
"Everybody's friend, I should think, and a most estimable young man. Please do not suppose I wish to underrate Mr. Gilmour. Dear me! I had no idea my call had been such a long one, but time passes so quickly in pleasant society, and between neighbours ceremonious visits are not half so enjoyable as these informal ones, when we do not feel compelled to count minutes."
Then Miss Chatterton bustled away, and Mrs. Manning, self-reproached, because her visitor's talk had touched a jarring chord, and angry that this local gossip should dare to speak about her daughter's chances, hastened to her room to seek relief and comfort in the only sure way.
The "little talk" had been far from satisfactory, and the mother doubted whether it would not have been better to say nothing, and let matters take their course without interference from her.
Yes. There was one good thing connected with that conversation—Elsie's appeal, "Trust me, dear; you shall owe no sorrow to me."
And then the mother went down on her knees, and prayed that her words, if even they had not been wisely spoken, might be overruled for good, and that God would undertake for these, her dear children, in the future as He had done in the past.
Elsie, too, was in her own room, to which she had hurried when she escaped a meeting with Miss Chatterton by means of the convenient window.
Surely no girl's face had ever undergone a greater change in so short a time as had hers. The sweet, shy look, the mischief-loving expression, the one which conveyed a whole wealth of affection as it was turned towards her mother—each and all were gone. Instead of these was one of unnatural thoughtfulness, as if the child were trying to solve some unsatisfactory problem.