To the eyes of a man viewing it from behind, the nut-brown hair was a wonder and a mystery.  Under the black hat, by its tuft of black feathers, the long locks, braided and twisted and coiled like the rushes of a basket, composed a rare, if somewhat barbaric, example of ingenious art.  One could understand such weavings and coilings being to last intact for a year, or even a calendar month; but that they should be all regularly at bedtime, after a single day of permanence, seemed a reckless waste of successful fabrication.  
And she had done it all herself, poor thing.  She had no maid, and it was almost the only she could boast of.  Hence the unstinted pains.
 
She was a young lady—not so very much of an invalid—sitting in a wheeled chair, which had been pulled up in the front part of a green enclosure, close to a bandstand, where a concert was going on, during a warm June afternoon.  It had place in one of the parks or private gardens that are to be found in the suburbs of London, and was the effort of a local association to raise money for some charity.  There are worlds within worlds in the great city, and though nobody outside the district had ever heard of the charity, or the band, or the garden, the enclosure was filled with an interested audience informed on all these.
 
As the strains proceeded many of the listeners observed the chaired lady, whose back hair, by reason of her prominent position, so challenged .  Her face was not easily discernible, but the aforesaid cunning tress-weavings, the white ear and poll, and the curve of a cheek which was neither flaccid nor sallow, were signals that led to the expectation of good beauty in front.  Such expectations are not infrequently disappointed as soon as the disclosure comes; and in the present case, when the lady, by a turn of the head, at length revealed herself, she was not so handsome as the people behind her had supposed, and even hoped—they did not know why.
 
For one thing (alas! the commonness of this complaint), she was less young than they had fancied her to be.  Yet attractive her face unquestionably was, and not at all sickly.  The revelation of its details came each time she turned to talk to a boy of twelve or thirteen who stood beside her, and the shape of whose hat and jacket implied that he belonged to a well-known public school.  The immediate bystanders could hear that he called her ‘Mother.’
 
When the end of the was reached, and the audience withdrew, many chose to find their way out by passing at her elbow.  Almost all turned their heads to take a full and near look at the interesting woman, who remained in the chair till the way should be clear enough for her to be wheeled out without .  As if she expected their glances, and did not mind gratifying their curiosity, she met the eyes of several of her observers by lifting her own, showing these to be soft, brown, and affectionate , a little in their regard.
 
She was conducted out of the gardens, and passed along the pavement till she disappeared from view, the schoolboy walking beside her.  To made by some persons who watched her away, the answer came that she was the second wife of the of a neighbouring parish, and that she was .  She was generally believed to be a woman with a story—an innocent one, but a story of some sort or other.
 
In with her on their way home the boy who walked at her elbow said that he hoped his father had not missed them.
 
‘He have been so comfortable these last few hours that I am sure he cannot have missed us,’ she replied.
 
‘Has, dear mother—not have!’ exclaimed the public-school boy, with an impatient fastidiousness that was almost harsh.  ‘Surely you know that by this time!’
 
His mother hastily adopted the correction, and did not resent his making it, or , as she might well have done, by bidding him to wipe that crumby mouth of his, whose condition had been caused by surreptitious attempts to eat a piece of cake without taking it out of the pocket wherein it lay .  After this the pretty woman and the boy went in silence.
 
That question of grammar bore upon her history, and she fell into reverie, of a somewhat sad kind to all appearance.  It might have been assumed that she was wondering if she had done wisely in shaping her life as she had shaped it, to bring out such a result as this.
 
In a remote nook in North Wessex, forty miles from London, near the thriving county-town of Aldbrickham, there stood a pretty village with its church and parsonage, which she knew well enough, but her son had never seen.  It was her native village, Gaymead, and the first event bearing upon her present situation had occurred at that place when she was only a girl of nineteen.
 
How well she remembered it, that first act in her little tragi-comedy, the death of her reverend husband’s first wife.  It happened on a spring evening, and she who now and for many years had filled that first wife’s place was then parlour-maid in the parson’s house.
 
When everything had been done that could be done, and the death was announced, she had gone out in the dusk to visit her parents, who were living in the same village, to tell them the sad news.  As she opened the white swing-gate and looked towards the trees which rose , shutting out the pale light of the evening sky, she discerned, without much surprise, the figure of a man in the hedge, though she roguishly exclaimed as a matter of form, ‘Oh, Sam, how you frightened me!’
 
He was a young gardener of her acquaintance.  She told him the particulars of the late event, and they stood silent, these two young people, in that elevated, calmly mind which is when a tragedy has happened close at hand, and has not happened to the philosophers themselves.  But it had its bearing upon their relations.
 
‘And will you stay on now at the Vicarage, just the same?’ asked he.
 
She had hardly thought of that.  ‘Oh, yes—I suppose!’ she said.  ‘Everything will be just as usual, I imagine?’
 
He walked beside her towards her mother’s.  Presently his arm stole round her waist.  She gently removed it; but he placed it there again, and she yielded the point.  ‘You see, dear Sophy, you don’t know that you’ll stay on; you may want a home; and I shall be ready to offer one some day, though I may not be ready just yet.
 
‘Why, Sam, how can you be so fast!  I’ve never even said I liked ’ee; and it is all your own doing, coming after me!’
 
‘Still, it is nonsense to say I am not to have a try at you like the rest.’  He stooped to kiss her a farewell, for they had reached her mother’s door.
 
‘No, Sam; you sha’n’t!’ she cried, putting her hand over his mouth.  ‘You ought to be more serious on such a night as this.’  And she bade him adieu without allowing him to kiss her or to come indoors.
 
The vicar just left a was at this time a man about forty years of age, of good family, and childless.  He had led a existence in this college living, partly because there were no resident landowners; and his loss now his habit of from outward observation.  He was still less seen than heretofore, kept himself still less in time with the rhythm and racket of the movements called progress in the world without.  For many months after his wife’s decease the economy of his household remained as before; the cook, the housemaid, the parlour-maid, and the man out-of-doors performed their duties or left them , just as Nature prompted them—the vicar knew not which.  It was then represented to him that his servants seemed to have nothing to do in his small family of one.  He was struck with the truth of this representation, and to cut down his establishment.  But he was by Sophy, the parlour-maid, who said one evening that she wished to leave him.
 
‘And why?’ said the parson.
 
‘Sam Hobson has asked me to marry him, sir.’
 
‘Well—do you want to marry?’
 
‘Not much.  But it would be a home for me.  And we have heard that one of us will have to leave.’
 
A day or two after she said: ‘I don’t want to leave just yet, sir, if you don’t wish it.  Sam and I have quarrelled.’
 
He looked up at her.  He had hardly ever observed her before, though he had been frequently conscious of her soft presence in the room.  What a kitten-like, flexuous, tender creature she was!  She was the only one of the servants with whom he came into immediate and continuous relation.  What should he do if Sophy were gone?
 
Sophy did not go, but one of the others did, and things went on quietly again.
 
When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was ill, Sophy brought up his meals to him, and she had no sooner left the room one day than he heard a noise on the stairs.  She had slipped down with the tray, and so twisted her foot that she could not stand.  The village surgeon was called in; the vicar got better, but Sophy was incapacitated for a long time; and she was informed that she must never again walk much or engage in any occupation which required her to stand long on her feet.  As soon as she was comparatively well she to him alone.  Since she was forbidden to walk and about, and, indeed, could not do so, it became her duty to leave.  She could very well work at something sitting down, and she had an aunt a seamstress.
 
The parson had been very greatly moved by what she had suffered on his account, and he exclaimed, ‘No, Sophy; lame or not lame, I cannot let you go.  You must never leave me again!’
 
He came close to her, and, though she could never exactly tell how it happened, she became conscious of his lips upon her cheek.  He then asked her to marry him.  Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had a respect for him which almost amounted to .  Even if she had wished to get away from him she hardly dared refuse a personage so reverend and august in her eyes, and she forthwith to be his wife.
 
Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the doors of the church were naturally open for ventilation, and the singing birds fluttered in and alighted on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage-service at the communion-rails, which hardly a soul knew of.  The parson and a neighbouring curate had entered at one door, and Sophy at another, followed by two necessary persons, whereupon in a short time there emerged a newly-made husband and wife.
 
Mr. Twycott knew well that he had committed social suicide by this step, despite Sophy’s spotless character, and he had taken his measures accordingly.  An exchange of livings had been arranged with an acquaintance who was incumbent of a church in the south of London, and as soon as possible the couple removed , abandoning their pretty country home, with trees and and glebe, for a narrow, dusty house in a long, straight street, and their fine of bells for the wretchedest one-tongued clangour that ever tortured mortal ears.  It was all on her account.  They were, however, away from every one who had known her former position; and also under less observation from without than they would have had to put up with in any country parish.
 
Sophy the woman was as charming a partner as a man could possess, though Sophy the lady had her deficiencies.  She showed a natural for little domestic , so far as related to things and manners; but in what is called culture she was less intuitive.  She had now been married more than fourteen years, and her husband had taken much trouble with her education; but she still held confused ideas on the use of ‘was’ and ‘were,’ which did not a respect for her among the few acquaintances she made.  Her great grief in this relation was that her only child, on whose education no expense had been and would be spared, was now old enough to perceive these deficiencies in his mother, and not only to see them but to feel irritated at their existence.
 
Thus she lived on in the city, and wasted hours in braiding her beautiful hair, till her once apple cheeks to pink of the very faintest.  Her foot had never its natural strength after the accident, and she was mostly obliged to avoid walking altogether.  Her husband had grown to like London for its freedom and its domestic privacy; but he was twenty years his Sophy’s senior, and had latterly been seized with a serious illness.  On this day, however, he had seemed to be well enough to her accompanying her son Randolph to the concert.

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