“Canon Birch,” said Lady Belstone, in awful tones, “she is a widow.”

The canon was silent, displaying an embarrassment which did not escape the vigilant observation of the sisters, who exchanged a meaning glance.

“Well may you remind us of the fact, Isabella,” said Miss Crewys, “for she has discarded the last semblance of mourning.”

“Time flies so fast,” said the canon, as though impelled to defend the absent.  “It is—­getting on for three years since poor Sir Timothy died.”

“It is but two years and four months,” said Miss Crewys.

“It is thirty-three years since the admiral went aloft,” said Lady Belstone, who often became slightly nautical in phrase when alluding to her departed husband; “and look at me.”

The pocket-handkerchief she held up was deeply bordered with ink.  Orthodox streamers floated on either side her severe countenance.

The canon looked and shook his head.  He felt that the mysteries of a widow’s garments had best not be discussed by one who dwelt, so to speak, outside them.

“Poor Mary can do nothing gradually,” said Miss Crewys.  “She leapt in a single hour out of a black dress into a white one.”

“Her anguish when our poor Timothy succumbed to that fatal operation surpassed even the bounds of decorum,” said Lady Belstone, “and yet—­she would not wear a cap!”

She appealed to the canon with such a pathetic expression in her small, red-rimmed, grey eyes that he could not answer lightly.

They faced him with anxious looks and drooping, tremulous mouths.  They had grown curiously alike during the close association of nearly eighty years, though in their far-off days of girlhood no one had thought them to resemble each other.

Miss Crewys crocheted a shawl with hands so delicately cared for and preserved, that they scarce showed any sign of her great age; her sister wore gloves, as was the habit of both when unoccupied, and she grasped her handkerchief in black kid fingers that trembled slightly with emotion.

The canon realized that the old ladies were seriously troubled concerning their sister-in-law’s delinquencies.

“We speak to you, of course, as our clergyman,” said Miss Crewys; and the poor gentleman could only bow sympathetically.

“I am an old friend,” he said feelingly, “and your confidences are sacred.  But I think in your very natural—­er—­affection for Lady Mary”—­the word stuck in his throat—­“you are, perhaps, over-anxious.  In judging those younger than ourselves,” said the canon, gallantly coupling himself with his auditors,’ though acutely conscious that he was some twenty years the junior of both, “we must not forget that they recover their spirits, by a merciful dispensation of Providence, more quickly than we should ourselves in the like circumstances,” said the canon, who was as light-hearted a cleric as any in England.

“They do, indeed,” said Lady Belstone, emphatically; “when they can sing and play all the day and half the night, like our dear Mary and young John.”