"Yes," sighed Mrs. Snow. "As I was saying to Bertha, you don't find a
young man like Mr. Girard, so considerate of every one--not that he's so
_very_ young, either; I'm sure he often appears much older than he is.
It's his manner--he has a manner like my dear father. He and Bertha have
long chats together; really, he is what _I_ would call quite attentive,
though she won't hear of such a thing--but sometimes young men _do_ take
a great fancy for older girls. I had a friend who married a gentleman
twenty-seven years younger--he died soon afterward. But many people
think nothing of a little difference of twelve or fifteen years. I said
to Bertha this morning, 'Bertha, if you'd dress yourself a little
younger--if you'd only wear a blue bow in your hair.' But no; I can't
say anything nowadays to my own children without being flown at!" Mrs.
Snow's voice trembled. "If my darling William were here!"

"Have you heard from William lately?" asked Lois, with supreme effort.

"My dear, he's in Chicago. I came over to read you a letter from him
that I got to-night. That new postman left it at the Scovels', by
mistake, and they never sent it over until a little while ago. There was
a sentence in it," Mrs. Snow was fumbling with a paper, "that I thought
you'd like to hear. Where is it? Let me see. 'Next month I hope to be
able to send you more'--no, no, that's not it. 'When my socks get holes
in them I throw them'--that's not it, either. Oh! he says, 'I caught a
glimpse of Mr. Alexander last night, getting on a West Side car'--this
was written yesterday morning. 'I called to him, but too late. I'm
sorry, for I'd like to have seen him,' That's all; but Mr. Girard seemed
so pleased with the letter, I promised that I would bring it around to
you that very minute,--he had to run for the train,--but I was detained.
He thought you'd like to hear that William had seen Mr. Alexander."

Like to hear! The relief for the moment turned Lois faint. Yet, after
Mrs. Snow went, the torturing questions began to repeat themselves
again. Justin was alive--Justin was alive on Tuesday night. Was he alive
now? And why had he gone to Chicago at all? Why had he sent her no word?
The wall between them seemed only the more opaque. Every fear that
imagination could devise seemed to center around this new fact.

She and Dosia went around, straightening up the little drawing-room,
making it ready for Girard's occupancy--pulling out a big chair for his
use,