"Would you blame the son for the misdeeds of the father?" she asked, in the same tone.
"No," said Wiggins; "but when the son is so evidently a counterpart of the father, I should say that Edith ought to be preserved from him."
"I don't know," said Mrs. Dunbar. "I'm afraid you judge too hastily. It may be for the best. Who knows?"
"It can only be for the worst," said Wiggins, with solemn emphasis.
"There is a woman with him," said Mrs. Dunbar, suddenly changing the conversation. "Who can she be?"
"Elderly. I never saw her before. He calls himself Mowbray, and she is Mrs. Mowbray. What can be the meaning of that? The woman seems old enough to be his mother."
"Old?" said Wiggins. "Ah--Mowbray--h'm! It must be some design of his on Edith. He brings this woman, so as to make a formal call. He will not tell her who he is. I don't like the look of this, and, what is worse, I don't know what to do. I could prohibit his visits, but that would be to give up my plans, and I can not do that yet. I must run the risk. As for Edith, she is mad. She is beyond my control. She drives me to despair."
"I do not see what danger there is for Edith in his visits," said Mrs. Dunbar, in a mournful voice.
"Danger!" said Wiggins. "A man like that!"
"You are judging him too hastily," said Mrs. Dunbar.
Wiggins looked at her in silence for a moment, and then said,
"I hope I am, I'm sure, for your sake; but I'm afraid that I am right and that you are wrong."
After some further conversation Mrs. Dunbar retired, carrying with her in her face and in her heart that deep concern and that strong agitation which had been excited by the visit of Mowbray. Edith, when she next saw her, noticed this, and for a long time afterward wondered to herself why it was that such a change had come over the housekeeper.
About two weeks afterward the Mowbrays called again. Edith was a little surprised at this, for she had not expected another visit; but on the whole she felt glad, and could not help indulging in some vague hope that this call would be for her good.
"I am sorry," said she to Mrs. Mowbray, "that I have not been able to return your call. But I have already explained how I am imprisoned here."
"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "pray don't speak of that. We feel for you, I assure you. Nothing is more unpleasant than a bereavement. It makes such a change in all one's life, you know. And then black does not become some people; they persist in visiting, too; but then, do you know, they really look to me like perfect frights. Not that you look otherwise than well, dear Miss Dalton. In fact, I should think that in any dress you would look perfectly charming; but that is because you are a brunette. Some complexions are positively out of all keeping with black. Have you ever noticed that? Oh yes, dear Miss Dalton," continued Mrs. Mowbray, after a short pause. "Brunettes are best in black--mark my words, now; and blondes are never effective in that color. They do better in bright colors. It is singular, isn't it? You, now, my dear, may wear black with impunity; and since you are called on in the mysterious dispensation of Providence to mourn, you ought at least to be grateful that you are a brunette. If you were a blonde, I really do not know what would ever become of you. Now, I am a blonde--but in spite of that I have been called on to mourn. It--it was a child."