The lady with whom Wilfrid found himself talking was tall and finely made, not very graceful in her bearing, and with a large face, the singular kindness of which speedily overcame the first sense of dissatisfaction at its plainness.  She wore a little cap of lace, and from her matronly costume breathed a pleasant freshness, akin to the activity of her flame.  Having taken the young man’s hand at greeting, she held it in both her own, and with large, grey eyes examined his face shrewdly.  Yet neither the action nor the gaze was embarrassing to Wilfrid he felt, on the contrary, something wonderfully soothing in the pressure of the warm, firm hands, and in her look an invitation to the repose of confidence which was new in his experience of women—­an experience not extensive, by the bye, though his characteristic generalisations seemed to claim the opposite.  He submitted from the first moment to an influence maternal in its spirit, an influence which his life had lacked, and which can perhaps only be fully appreciated either in mature reflection upon a past made sacred by death, or on a meeting such as this, when the heart is open to the helpfulness of disinterested sympathy.  Mrs. Baxendale’s countenance was grave enough to suit the sad thoughts with which she sought to commune, yet showed an under-smile, suggesting the consolation held in store by one much at home in the world’s sorrows.  As she smiled, each of her cheeks dimpled softly, and Wilfrid could not help noticing the marvellous purity of her complexion, as well as the excellent white teeth just visible between her lips.

‘So you have come all the way from Switzerland,’ she said, leading him to a chair, and seating herself by him.  Her voice had a touch of masculine quality, even as her shape and features, but it chained attention, and impressed as the utterance of a large and strong nature.  ’You are tired, too, with travel; I can see that.  When did you reach Dunfield?’

‘Half an hour ago.’

’And you came here at once.  Beatrice and I were on the point of going to Hebsworth this afternoon; I rejoice that we did not.  I’m continually afraid lest she should find the house dull.  My husband and myself are alone.  My eldest girl was married three months ago, my younger one is just gone to Germany, and my son is spending half a year in the United States; the mother finds herself a little forsaken.  It was really more than kind of Beatrice to come and bury herself with me for a week or two.’

She passed by tactful transition to the matter in hand.

’Wasn’t it a strange link that she should meet Miss Hood at your house!  She has been so saddened.  I never yet knew any one who could talk with Emily without feeling deep interest in her.  My daughter Louisa, I am convinced, will never forget what she owes to her teacher She and my youngest child used to be Miss Hood’s pupils—­perhaps you have heard?  My own Emily—­she is dead—­was passionately fond of her namesake; she talked of her among the last words she ever spoke, poor little mite.’