“Why, madam, you’ve never been in bed this blessed night,” burst out Tantripp, looking first at the bed and then at Dorothea’s face, which in spite of bathing had the pale cheeks and pink eyelids of a mater dolorosa. “You’ll kill yourself, you will . Anybody might think now you had a right to give yourself a little comfort.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Tantripp,” said Dorothea, smiling. “I have slept; I am not ill. I shall be glad of a cup of coffee as soon as possible. And I want you to bring me my new dress; and most likely I shall want my new bonnet today.”
“They’ve lain there a month and more ready for you, madam, and most thankful I shall be to see you with a couple o’ pounds’ worth less of crape,” said Tantripp, stooping to light the fire. “There’s a reason in mourning, as I’ve always said; and three folds at the bottom of your skirt and a plain quilling in your bonnet—and if ever anybody looked like an angel, it’s you in a net quilling—is what’s consistent for a second year. At least, that’s my thinking,” ended Tantripp, looking anxiously at the fire; “and if anybody was to marry me flattering himself I should wear those hijeous weepers two years for him, he’d be deceived by his own vanity, that’s all.”
“The fire will do, my good Tan,” said Dorothea, speaking as she used to do in the old Lausanne days, only with a very low voice; “get me the coffee.”
She folded herself in the large chair, and leaned her head against it in fatigued quiescence, while Tantripp went away wondering at this strange contrariness in her young mistress—that just the morning when she had more of a widow’s face than ever, she should have asked for her lighter mourning which she had waived before. Tantripp would never have found the clue to this mystery. Dorothea wished to acknowledge that she had not the less an active life before her because she had buried a private