bestowed, took off much of the precision of the widow's cap; moreover, there was a flutter in her manner—a little girlish laugh—less interest than usual was taken in the news of the village—no allusion was made to poor dear Mr. Arundel—and there was that fidgety mysterious air which seems to say, there is a secret longing to be told. There were two reasons why it was not told—first, Mrs. Arundel was not quite sure whether she really had a secret to tell; and, secondly, what with hoarseness, headach, and water-gruel, Mrs. Clarke was not in the best possible condition for cross questioning.
Well, a fortnight passed by, during which that lady did not see Mrs. Arundel, when her principles received a shock by the astounding news that Miss Barr, the glass of fashion, the milliner of the adjacent town, had sent to the Hall two caps—not widow's caps, but, as the young person, who called on her way home, said, "such light tasty things;" and a servant who had been there with a message brought back word that one of these "light tasty things" was actually on Mrs. Arundel's head.
Now, Mrs. Clarke was one of those to whom caps and crape were the very morality of mourning—she was not the only one, by the by, with
