Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was determined this time he would not break.
"What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her feet.
"I am afraid,—the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was."
"Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go their own way, and whom nobody can help. She was here several months, then?"
"More than that"
"More? How much more?"
"She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her."
"Did she tell you anything of her story?"
"Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you were her sister."
"Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they charge the fault upon their family."