“Oh, no,” replied Cornelia, whose opinion of Aunt Margaret’s character was much improved by this evidently sincere sympathy in the suffering of some one she had never seen—­“oh, no; papa says he’ll be all well in three months.”

“And he’s staying at your house, and under your dear father’s care?”

“Yes, he is now.  Before his accident he was boarding at Abbie’s, down in the village.  She would have been very kind to him, of course, but I suppose he’d rather be at our house, because papa can always be at hand.”

While Cornelia was delivering this into the black ear-trumpet, she turned her eyes away from Aunt Margaret’s face, being in truth somewhat embarrassed at talking so much about the man who had her heart.  Consequently she did not observe the expression which crossed her companion’s face at her mention of the modest name of the boarding-house keeper.  Her features seemed to contract and sharpen, and there was positively a glitter in her watery eyes, seemingly mingled of consternation, astonishment, and hatred.  In another moment the expression had passed away, or was softened into one of nervous alarm and anxiety; and even this, when she spoke, was wellnigh effaced.

“Certainly—­yes, certainly! your dear father—­what a wise man he is! he has such a profound knowledge of medicine and surgery—­all those things—­so prudent, so careful!  Still, a woman is a treasure, you know—­a good, sensible, efficient woman is a host—­oh, yes, in a sick-room.  This boarding-house keeper, now—­she’s just such a person, I dare say—­elderly, sober, experienced—­a married woman, probably, with a large family, no doubt?  Abbie, Abbie! what did you say her last name was, my love?”

Cornelia was so much amused at the idea of Abbie’s being a married woman with a large family that she did not observe how Aunt Margaret, awaiting her answer, was all in a tremble.  If she had not been laughing, she could scarcely have helped seeing how the ear-trumpet shook as it was presented to her.

“Oh, no,” said she, “she’s not married, Aunt Margaret—­at least not now, though I believe she’s a widow, or something of that kind, you know—­and she hasn’t any children at all!  As to her other name, I don’t know it, and I believe hardly any one does.  You see, she’s one of that queer sort of people; she’s very quiet, and always grave, and nobody knows much about her, except that she’s very good, and has lived in the village for twenty years and more.  I believe, though, papa has met her before, or knows something about her in some way; but he never says any thing to us on the subject.”

This was all that could be got out of Cornelia upon the topic of Abbie, and Mrs. Vanderplauck was obliged to swallow whatever uneasiness, curiosity, or misgiving she may have felt.  In the midst of an exhortation to her young guest to repeat her visit daily to the boudoir, and regale her auntie with anecdotes of the dear old, interesting people in the village, Abbie and all, some one of the young ladies knocked at the door, and hurried Miss Valeyon off, without her having asked, as she had intended, for an explanation of the puzzling, metaphorical allusions.