she could not possibly have any company—irritated the girl. She knew this was unreasonable. Her aunt could not be expected to shut the door on her numerous friends three months after her brother-in-law was dead. It was natural that her uncle's hunting companions should drop in in on their way home, and have some refreshment. Then gradually those who lived afar, when the meet was near Farley, were asked to sleep there the previous night. Few ladies came. Elizabeth did not ask herself why; she only was glad. Women required some attention; men she could leave her aunt to entertain—and, no doubt, she did entertain them. As a rule, they rather fought shy of the dark-browed girl in mourning, who offered them so little encouragement. Colonel Wybrowe, she heard, was in Africa, shooting tigers, but was expected home in the spring. He was the only man she had ever met at Farley in whom she felt any interest, and that was of the mildest description. She thought of him as a picture rather than a man—a Titian or Velasquez, seen by her in one of those great galleries abroad, and never quite forgotten.
Thus the winter passed, and its wounds began to be healed under the sweet breath of spring: the birds lifted up their voices, and the streams which had been frozen about the girl's heart flowed once more. Elizabeth was too healthy, physically and morally, not to feel the influences of the season. She was eighteen, and she was strong. All life was before her; she had been stunned for a time, but now she must be up and doing. She went over to Whiteburn with her uncle and inspected the farm; she rode to the meet with her aunt, and began a portrait of her on horseback.
