“Very nice indeed, Mrs. Berry; but could you have believed he would be so kind, so considerate?”

“I am sure I looked a frump,” returned Mrs. Berry.  “Oh dear! two birds at a shot.  What do you think, now?”

“I never saw so wonderful a likeness,” says Lucy.

“Likeness! look at me.”  Mrs. Berry was trembling and hot in the palms.

“You’re very feverish, dear Berry.  What can it be?”

“Ain’t it like the love-flutters of a young gal, my dear.”

“Go to bed, Berry, dear,” says Lucy, pouting in her soft caressing way.  “I will undress you, and see to you, dear heart!  You’ve had so much excitement.”

“Ha! ha!” Berry laughed hysterically; “she thinks it’s about this business of hers.  Why, it’s child’s-play, my darlin’.  But I didn’t look for tragedy to-night.  Sleep in this house I can’t, my love!”

Lucy was astonished.  “Not sleep here, Mrs. Berry?—­Oh! why, you silly old thing?  I know.”

“Do ye!” said Mrs. Berry, with a sceptical nose.

“You’re afraid of ghosts.”

“Belike I am when they’re six foot two in their shoes, and bellows when you stick a pin into their calves.  I seen my Berry!”

“Your husband?”

“Large as life!”

Lucy meditated on optical delusions, but Mrs. Berry described him as the Colossus who had marched them into the library, and vowed that he had recognized her and quaked.  “Time ain’t aged him,” said Mrs. Berry, “whereas me! he’ve got his excuse now.  I know I look a frump.”

Lucy kissed her:  “You look the nicest, dearest old thing.”

“You may say an old thing, my dear.”

“And your husband is really here?”

“Berry’s below!”

Profoundly uttered as this was, it chased every vestige of incredulity.

“What will you do, Mrs. Berry?”

“Go, my dear.  Leave him to be happy in his own way.  It’s over atween us, I see that.  When I entered the house I felt there was something comin’ over me, and lo and behold ye! no sooner was we in the hall-passage—­if it hadn’t been for that blessed infant I should ’a dropped.  I must ’a known his step, for my heart began thumpin’, and I knew I hadn’t got my hair straight—­that Mr. Wentworth was in such a hurry—­nor my best gown.  I knew he’d scorn me.  He hates frumps.”

“Scorn you!” cried Lucy, angrily.  “He who has behaved so wickedly!”

Mrs. Berry attempted to rise.  “I may as well go at once,” she whimpered.  “If I see him I shall only be disgracin’ of myself.  I feel it all on my side already.  Did ye mark him, my dear?  I know I was vexin’ to him at times, I was.  Those big men are so touchy about their dignity—­nat’ral.  Hark at me!  I’m goin’ all soft in a minute.  Let me leave the house, my dear.  I daresay it was good half my fault.  Young women don’t understand men sufficient—­not altogether—­and I was a young woman then; and then what they goes and does they ain’t quite answerable for:  they, feels, I daresay, pushed from behind.  Yes.  I’ll go.  I’m a frump.  I’ll go.  ’Tain’t in natur’ for me to sleep in the same house.”