together, a highly promising one and a wholly unpromising one: of whom
the promising one answered all questions charmingly, until it would at
last appear that she was not a candidate at all, but only the friend of
the unpromising one, who had glowered in absolute silence and apparent
injury.

At last, when the good wine-merchant's simple heart was failing him,
there entered an applicant quite different from all the rest. A woman,
perhaps fifty, but looking younger, with a face remarkable for placid
cheerfulness, and a manner no less remarkable for its quiet expression of
equability of temper. Nothing in her dress could have been changed to
her advantage. Nothing in the noiseless self-possession of her manner
could have been changed to her advantage. Nothing could have been in
better unison with both, than her voice when she answered the question:
"What name shall I have the pleasure of noting down?" with the words, "My
name is Sarah Goldstraw. Mrs. Goldstraw. My husband has been dead many
years, and we had no family."

Half-a-dozen questions had scarcely extracted as much to the purpose from
any one else. The voice dwelt so agreeably on Mr. Wilding's ear as he
made his note, that he was rather long about it. When he looked up
again, Mrs. Goldstraw's glance had naturally gone round the room, and now
returned to him from the chimney-piece. Its expression was one of frank
readiness to be questioned, and to answer straight.

"You will excuse my asking you a few questions?" said the modest wine-
merchant.

"O, surely, sir. Or I should have no business here."