d love, reciprocally grateful,
took its place. Her heart went out to the fond, yet jealous, mother who
had written so yieldingly of her. This mother had clung so determinedly
to her son, but now she loosed her grasp on him that he might tend
whither he would, because his way led to her, Lizzi.

She was flattered by the manner in which Gill had written to his mother
of her. "For," she reasoned, "a man will be honest with his mother."

"Go, John," she said simply. "Your mother should know before the world
does."

"I think it best, Lizzi. I shall come back in two weeks unless something
happens to me."

"Don't say that, John, or you can't go. If anything should happen to
you, death would happen to me."

She kissed him. Her kiss was fire to his blood. He caught her in a
passionate embrace. His lack of reverence wounded her. She shrank from
his touch, which for the first time seemed coarse. Instinctively he
understood and released her.

The next day he departed for his mother's residence.

CHAPTER X.

BLIND BENNER'S TRIBUTE.

The two weeks of Gill's absence ran into six and he had not come back.
Lizzi wrote to the address he gave, and the letter was returned to her.
Gossip said he had deserted her, but she said to her broken heart, "John
is dead."

She recalled his fond good-by and his promise to return, with or without
his mother's approval of his marriage, at the end of two weeks. She
remembered his cavalier appearance as he rode by the Block and waved her
a farewell. She heard still the sound of his horse's hoofs in the long
bridge. She knew he had considerable money on his person, and supposed
some one had murdered him for it. She was left a widow, indeed.

Yet she held her peace and bore herself proudly as ever. Her eyes did
not quail before the cold stare of the matrons. Her honest heart
sustained her. It did not cry out, "Shame! shame!" So she did not
seclude herself, nor was she forward. When necessity called her into the
streets, she courageously faced her old acquaintances and bore with
patience their scorn. Two women were kind to her and sad for her, but
were not oppressive in their attentions. These were Mrs. Hornberger and
Gret Reed. Yet she did not seek the comfort of their sympathy, nor once
become weak enough to ask them to believe in her. Appearances were
against her, but she never intimated that she could produce legal proof
of her innocence. Her heart cried out in woe, "I am bereft," and the