Lydia, Godfrey Cradlebow's wife, was tall and slight, with dark hair and
eyes--a perfect face, though worn and sad. She invariably wore over her
cotton gown, on occasions when she went out, a very fine, very thin
old-fashioned mantilla, bordered with a deep black fringe. This pathetic
remnant of gentility, borne rudely about by the Wallencamp winds, with
Lydia's refined face and melancholy dark eyes, gave her a very
interesting and picturesque appearance; though I never thought she wore
the mantilla during the winter for effect. She was shy, though
exceedingly gentle in her manners. At first, I had thought that she
avoided me. But one time, when making the round of my parochial calls, I
stopped at the Cradlebows', and Mr. Cradlebow discoursing fluently on the
Phenomenon, recommended a severe method of discipline as best adapted to
his case, I replied, laughingly, that he had better be cautious about
making any suggestions of that sort, for Simeon and I were getting to be
great friends; the mother, on whose heart I had had no design, took my
hand at the door, when I went away, in a clinging, almost an affectionate
way.
"You are good to my boys, teacher," she said; "and I thank you for it.
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