years.  I cannot say that externally she looked worn or broken.  I had imagined that I should see her undone with her great troubles, but to some extent, and yet not altogether, I was mistaken.  The cheek-bones were more prominent than of old, and her dark-brown hair drawn tightly over her forehead increased the clear paleness of the face; the just perceptible tint of colour which I recollect being now altogether withdrawn.  But she was not haggard, and evidently not vanquished.  There was even a gaiety on her face, perhaps a trifle enforced, and although the darkness of sorrow gleamed behind it, the sorrow did not seem to be ultimate, but to be in front of a final background, if not of joy, at least of resignation.  Her ancient levity of manner had vanished, or at most had left nothing but a trace.  I thought I detected it here and there in a line about the mouth, and perhaps in her walk.  There was a reminiscence of it too in her clothes.  Notwithstanding poverty and distress, the old neatness—­that particular care which used to charm me so when I was little more than a child, was there still.  I was always susceptible to this virtue, and delicate hands and feet, with delicate care bestowed thereon, were more attractive to me than slovenly beauty.  I noticed that the gloves, though mended, fitted with the same precision, and that her dress was unwrinkled and perfectly graceful.  Whatever she might have had to endure, it had not destroyed that self-centred satisfaction which makes life tolerable.

I was impelled at once to say that I had to beg her pardon for asking her there.  Unfortunately I was obliged to go over to Cowston, a village which was about three miles from the town.  Perhaps she would not mind walking part of the way with me through the meadows, and then we could talk with more freedom, as I should not feel pressed for time.  To this arrangement she at once agreed, and dropping her thick veil over her face, we went out.  In a few minutes we were clear of the houses, and I began the conversation.

“Have you been in the habit of teaching?”

“No.  The necessity for taking to it has only lately arisen.”

“What can you teach?”

“Not much beyond what children of ten or eleven years old are expected to know; but I could take charge of them entirely.”

“Have you any children of your own?”

“One.”

“Could you take a situation as resident teacher if you have a child?”

“I must get something to do, and if I can make no arrangement by which my child can live with me, I shall try and place her with a friend.  I may be able to hear of some appointment as a daily governess.”

“I should have thought that in your native town you would have been easily able to find employment—­you must be well known?”

There was a pause, and after a moment or so she said:-