“Well, dear, it is like you to feel so,—­I knew you would; and I will not say a word.  Oh, Mary, if she ever thinks of such things now—­”

“I hope she will not—­I hope she cannot!” cried the girl, with once more a vehement pressure of her friend’s hands.

“What is that?” Mrs. Bowyer said, looking round.  “It is somebody in the next room, I suppose.  No, dear, I hope so too, for she would not be happy if she remembered.  Mary, dry your eyes, my dear.  Try not to think of this.  I am sure there is some one in the next room.  And you must try not to look wretched, for all our sakes—­”

“Wretched!” cried Mary, springing up.  “I am not wretched.”  And she turned with a countenance glowing and full of courage to the door.  But there was no one there,—­no visitor lingering in the smaller room as sometimes happened.

“I thought I heard some one come in,” said the vicar’s wife.  “Didn’t you hear something, Mary?  I suppose it is because I am so agitated with all this, but I could have sworn I heard some one come in.”

“There is nobody,” said Mary, who, in the shock of the calamity which had so suddenly changed the world to her, was perfectly calm.  She did not feel at all disposed to cry or “give way.”  It went to her head with a thrill of pain, which was excitement as well, like a strong stimulant suddenly applied; and she added, “I should like to go out a little, if you don’t mind, just to get used to the idea.”

“My dear, I will get my hat in a moment—­”

“No, please.  It is not unkindness; but I must think it over by myself,—­by myself,” Mary cried.  She hurried away, while Mrs. Bowyer took another survey of the outer room, and called the servant to know who had been calling.  Nobody had been calling, the maid said; but her mistress still shook her head.

“It must have been some one who does not ring, who just opens the door,” she said to herself.  “That is the worst of the country.  It might be Mrs. Blunt, or Sophia Blackburn, or the curate, or half-a-dozen people,—­and they have just gone away when they heard me crying.  How could I help crying?  But I wonder how much they heard, whoever it was.”

VI.

It was winter, and snow was on the ground.

Lady Mary found herself on the road that led through her own village, going home.  It was like a picture of a wintry night,—­like one of those pictures that please the children at Christmas.  A little snow sprinkled on the roofs, just enough to define them, and on the edges of the roads; every cottage window showing a ruddy glimmer in the twilight; the men coming home from their work; the children, tied up in comforters and caps, stealing in from the slides, and from the pond, where they were forbidden to go; and, in the distance, the trees of the great House standing up dark, turning the twilight into night.  She had a curious enjoyment in it, simple like that