“Well, and what happened then?”
“The lady was frightened—and that frightened me. I think,” the child repeated positively, “she’s mad.”
It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the lady might be blind. He rose at once to set the doubt at rest.
“Wait here,” he said, “and I’ll come back to you.”
But Lucy clung to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by herself. They left the alcove together.
The new point of view at once revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child’s terror—it excused the alarming conclusion at which she had arrived.
“Go nearer to her,” Lucy whispered.
They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see that the lady was young, and wasted by illness—but (arriving at a doubtful conclusion perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare personal attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little, she discovered them. After some hesitation, she left the tree; approached with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature, deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was not easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildered, if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the place in which they stood.
Mr. Rayburn spoke to her with the utmost kindness of voice and manner.
“I am afraid you are not well,” he said. “Is there anything that I can do—”