th swift compunction that the poor woman's burdens were
trebled since Laurella lay ill, and Pap gave up so much of his time to
hanging anxiously about his young wife.

"What is it, Aunt Mavity?" she asked. "Is anything the matter?"

"I hate to werry ye, Johnnie," said the other's deprecating voice; "but
looks like I've jest got obliged to have a little help this evenin'. I'm
plumb dead on my feet, and there's all the dishes to do and a stack of
towels and things to rub out." Her dim gaze questioned the young face
above her dubiously, almost desperately. The little brass lamp in her
hand made a pitiful wavering.

"Of course I can help you. I'd have been in before this, only I--I--was
kind of worried about something else, and I forgot," declared Johnnie,
strengthening her heart to endure the necessary postponement of
her purpose.

She went into the kitchen with Mavity Bence, and the two women worked
there at the dishes, and washing out the towels, till after nine
o'clock, Johnnie's anxiety and distress mounting with every minute of
delay. At a little past nine, she left poor Mavity at the door of that
wretched place the poor woman called her room, looked quietly in to see
that her mother seemed to sleep, got her hat and hurried out, goaded by
a seemingly disproportionate fever of impatience and anxiety. She took
her way up the little hill and across the slope to where the Hardwick
mansion gleamed, many-windowed, gay with lights, behind its evergreens.

When she reached the house itself she found an evening reception going
forward--the Hardwicks were entertaining the Lyric Club. She halted
outside, debating what to do. Could she call Miss Lydia from her company
to listen to such a story as this? Was it not in itself almost an
offence to bring these things before people who could live as Miss Lydia
lived? Somebody was playing the violin, and Johnnie drew nearer the
window to listen. She stared in at the beautiful lighted room, the
well-dressed, happy people. Suddenly she caught sight of Gray Stoddard
standing near the girl who was playing, a watchful eye upon her music to
turn it for her. She clutched the window-sill and stood choking and
blinded, fighting with a crowd of daunting recollections and miserable
apprehensions. The young violinist was playing Schubert's Serenade. From
the violin came the cry of hungry human love demanding its mate,
questing, praying, half despairing, and yet wooing, seeking again.

Johnnie