for Charles Stanmore's supper as though nothing unusual
had occurred.

Nor, when he came home, did she tell him, nor did she ever by word or
act permit the secret of that interview to pass out of her keeping.
But the memory of it was forever with her. Day and night she hugged it
to herself, she nursed it, and fostered it for all those twenty years,
the bitterness, the cruel injustice of the insult, grinding its way
till it became a part of the very essence of her being.

Suddenly a cry broke in upon her reverie. She started, and her eyes
lit with a gleam of satisfaction. Her mind had returned to the
present, and she called out--

"Joan!"

Without waiting for an answer she left her seat, and, crossing swiftly
to the door, flung it wide open.

Joan staggered in, and, dropping into the welcoming arms of a
rocking-chair, she buried her face in her hands.

Mercy Lascelles stood silently contemplating the bowed head. There was
no sympathy in her attitude. Her heart was cold and hard as steel. But
she was interested in the cause rather than the effect.

After a while the storm of grief slackened. The racking sobs came at
longer intervals. Then it was that Mercy Lascelles broke the silence.

"Well?" she demanded sharply.

The tear-stained face was slowly lifted, and the sight of the girl's
distress was heart-breaking.

"He is dead," Joan said in a choking voice. Then, with something like
resentment--"Are--are you satisfied?"

Mercy went back to her chair and her beloved crystal. And after a
moment she began to speak in a low, even tone, as though reciting a
well-learnt lesson.

"It was at the crossing of 36th Street and Lisson Avenue, here the
street cars cross, here some also turn off. It was the fault of his
horse. The creature shied at a heavy truck. Two cars were approaching
from east and west. The shying horse slipped on the granite paving,
fell, and was caught between the two meeting cars before they could
pull up. The horse was killed on the spot, and--the rider was----"

"Don't, auntie! Don't say it! Yes, yes, he was taken to the hospital,
and died of his injuries. But don't speak of his terrible mutilations.
I--I can't bear it."

Again Joan buried her face in her hands as though to shut out the
horror of it all. But the elder woman had no such scruples.

"Why harrow yourself with the picture?" she demanded brusquely.
"Imagination can add nothing to the fact. Tears will not change one
detail. They wi