CHAPTER II


For several weeks the Grays did not see much of Mrs. Cary. She appeared
at dinner and supper, eating little and saying less. She rose very late,
having a cup of coffee in bed about ten; the afternoons she spent
rambling through the fields and along the river-bank, but never going
near the highroad on her long walks. She generally read until nearly
midnight, and the book-hungry Grays pounced like tigers on the newspapers
and magazines with which she heaped her scrap-baskets, and longed for the
time to come when she would offer to lend them some of the books piled
high all around her rooms.

Some years before, when vacationists demanded less in the way of
amusement, Hamstead had flourished in a mild way as a summer-resort; but
its brief day of prosperity in this respect had passed, and the advent
of a wealthy and mysterious stranger, whose mail was larger than that of
all the rest of the population put together, but who never appeared in
public, or even spoke, apparently, in private, threw the entire village
into a ferment of excitement. Fred Elliott, who, in his role of
prospective son-in-law, might be expected to know much that was going on
at the Grays', was "pumped" in vain; he was obliged to confess his
entire ignorance concerning the history, occupations, and future
intentions of the young widow. Mrs. Gray had to "house-clean" her parlor
a month earlier than she had intended, because she had so many callers
who came hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Cary, and hear all about her,
besides; but they did not see her at all, and Mrs. Gray could tell them
but little.

"She ain't a mite of trouble," the good woman declared to every one, "an'