“Because Mr. Murray happens to be one man in a million,” answered she.  “Nothing on earth would induce me to begin over again and take such a risk a second time, with life before me.  As for bringing about a marriage, I would almost rather bring about a murder.”

“Poor Esther!” said he gloomily.  “She has been brought up among men, and is not used to harness.  If things go wrong she will rebel, and a woman who rebels is lost.”

“Esther has known too many good men ever to marry a bad one,” she replied.

“I am not sure of that,” he answered.  “When I am out of the way she will feel lonely, and any man who wants her very much can probably get her.  Joking apart, it is there I want your help.  Keep an eye on her.  Your principles will let you prevent a marriage, even though you are not allowed to make one.”

“I hope she will not want my help in either way,” said Mrs. Murray; “but if she does, I will remember what you say—­though I would rather go out to service at five dollars a week than do this kind of work.  Do you know that I have already a girl on my hands?  Poor Catherine Brooke’s daughter is coming to-morrow from Colorado to be under my care for the next few months till she is of age.  She never has been to the East, and I expect to have my hands full.”

“If I had known it,” said he, “I think I would have selected some wiser woman to look after Esther.”

“You are too encouraging,” replied Mrs. Murray.  “If I talk longer with you I shall have a crying fit.  Suppose we change the subject and amuse ourselves in a cheerfuller way.”

They finished their drive talking of less personal matters, but Mrs. Murray, after leaving her brother-in-law at his house, went back to her own with spirits depressed to a point as low as any woman past fifty cares to enjoy.  She had reason to know that Mr. Dudley was not mistaken about his symptoms, and that not many months could pass before that must happen which he foresaw.  He could find some relief in talking and even in jesting about it, but she could only with difficulty keep herself from an outburst of grief.  She had every reason to feel keenly.  To lose one’s oldest friends is a trial that human nature never accustoms itself to bear with satisfaction, even when the loss does not double one’s responsibilities; but in this case Mrs. Murray, as she grew old, saw her niece Esther about to come on her hands at the same time when a wild girl from the prairie was on the road to her very door, and she had no sufficient authority to control either of them.  For a woman without children of her own, to act this part of matron to an extemporized girls’ college might be praise-worthy, but could not bring repose of mind or body.