ation to return to her own land as soon as
possible. The old place, Sweet-Waters, had been left equally to her and
Charlotte. Now, Charlotte and her husband, Judge Macon, lived there, at
her request, but the house was large and rambling--there would be room
for her and Bobby--her thousand dollars a year would keep her from being
an expense to them. Joe was fond of her--he would not mind having her
live with them....

The cab stopped. She got out and stood face to face with the house of
the great specialist. It seemed to regard her superciliously, with a
look of hard, callous reticence. Architecture has its misanthropes as
well as humanity. This was a forbidding house; it seemed built to hold
impartial dooms and the gloomy prosperity that gains by the pain of
others. She could not think of healing as going forth of that house. Yet
Dr. Carfew had saved many. It was only Sophy's dark mood that thus
interpreted to her the expression of the great physician's house.

She went quietly up the steps, after her short pause, and rang the bell.

Dr. Carfew was out of town--would not be back until noon. Sophy thought
a moment.

"I will come in and write a note," she said.

The man led her into a gloomy room, and set writing materials to her
hand.

"Give this to Doctor Carfew the instant that he returns," she said to
the man, handing him the sealed envelope. "It is a matter of life and
death."

The sound of her own voice saying this struck her strangely. The "life
and death" that she had spoken of meant the life and death of Cecil. She
still hoped that he would die. She did not exactly hate him--but she
hoped that he would die.

She gave the cabman the address of Father Raphael of the Poor. As they
trotted on, she began to wonder what Father Raphael of the Poor would be
like. Was he old--young? She stiffened suddenly, as she sat there all
alone in the musty cab. No--she could not talk of such matters with a
young man. She could not risk so much as that--the ordeal of finding
that the priest was young. But then--she must speak out to some
one--some one who did not know her--some one quite removed from such a
life as hers. Yes--now she understood the power of the Confessional in
the Romish church. To kneel before a little grating and, unseen, whisper
out one's agonies and perplexities to another, also invisible.... To
speak without identity to one also without identity--that must be a
marvellous solace. To believers it must b