“Well, it seems,” replied Dick, finding it, after all, an awkward subject to talk of to a woman, “she’s gone to live with that horse-breeder who’s taken Burton’s farm.”

“But he’s a married man,” said Anne, not comprehending.

“Yes, I know,” said Dick, with an embarrassed laugh, but Anne did not hear.  She had understood.

“She was a good, respectable girl,” she said.  “However can she have forgotten herself like that?  Where’s her sister Annie?”

“They do say she’s nearly as bad,” replied Dick.  “He’s rather a taking man—­good-looking and hearty, and dresses better than the farmers, and his wife went off with a trainer too.”

“Her grandmother’s only been dead two years, and she’s been allowed to go wrong like that,” exclaimed Anne, with condemnation of herself in her voice.

“Well, you know,” expostulated Dick, “I don’t know as it’s anybody’s business.  Everybody’s got their own affairs to attend to.”

“Oh yes!  I know,” said Anne.  “It’s never anybody’s business to try to prevent such things, but it’ll be everybody’s business to throw stones at the girl very soon, if the man tires of her.”

“I don’t know about preventing,” returned Dick; “she seemed pretty set on him herself.  I think myself it’s a pity.  Here’s the eggs from Mary Colton, Miss Hilton—­three dozen,” he added, as a diversion from the conversation, which he found more embarrassing than the sermon he had successfully avoided.  With that he escaped from the chair with a jerk, scuffled his feet once or twice on the floor, took his cap out of his pocket, and ejaculated “Good-night.”

“Good-night,” replied Anne, still preoccupied.  “Thank you for bringing the eggs;” and she sat down with a slight groan.

“Why, it might be herself,” reflected Dick, looking back at the dejected figure in the darkening room.  Being a simple youth, he felt vaguely uncomfortable at the sight of such trouble over the doings of one who was no relation, and began to take a little blame to himself for thinking lightly of the girl’s downfall.

“Well, she’s very good,” he concluded in his thoughts, “but she’s peculiar;” and he tramped heavily through the yard into the lane.

Anne did not stir.  She was so shocked that her bodily faculties seemed to have ceased, and her mind to have remained sorrowing and awake.  This lapse was even worse than that of Sir Richard’s son, because it seemed irretrievable.  Then, too, it had happened before she knew anything about it, whereas, in the other case, she had been active, and able to expostulate and screen the young man’s fall.  And then, too, there was the surprise of a middle-aged woman at the lapses of “young, strong people,” just as, if one of more maturity had fallen, the comment of the young would have been equally certain, “an old thing like her.”