The smart farmers' wives, the rosy farmers' daughters, are pacing along through the powdery dust toward the church-gate.
"Is she a _widow_ ?" ask I, in a low voice.
He laughs sarcastically.
"A widow indeed, and desolate, eh?
No! I believe she has a husband somewhere about, but she keeps him well out of sight--away in the colonies.

He is there now, I fancy." "And why is not she with him ?" cry I, indignantly; but the moment that the words are out of my mouth, I hang my head.

Might not _she_ ask the same question with regard to _me_?
"She did not like the _sea_, perhaps," answers Frank, demurely..