ide of her blond
pompadour a bit, which softened her face, and added to its
allurement. The truth was Wilbur Edes, before he met Margaret, had
proposed to Alice Mendon. Alice had never told, and he had not,
consequently Margaret did not know. Had she known it would have made
no difference, since she could not imagine any man preferring Alice
to herself. All her jealousy was based upon the facts of her superior
height, and ability to carry herself well, where she knew herself
under many circumstances about as graceful as an Angora cat walking
upon her hind legs. She was absolutely sure of her husband. The
episode with Alice had occurred before he had ever even seen Herself.
She smiled radiantly upon him as she arose. She was conscious of no
affection for her husband, but she was conscious of a desire to show
appreciation, and to display radiance for his delectation.

"It is charming of you to think of getting Lydia Greenway to read,
you dear old man," said she. Wilbur beamed.

"Well, of course, I can not be sure, that is not absolutely sure, but
if it is to be done, I will manage it," said he.

It was at this very time, for radically different notes sound at the
same time in the harmony or discord of life, that Von Rosen's
housekeeper, Jane Riggs, stood before him with that crackling white
apron swept over her face.

"What is it?" asked Von Rosen, and he realised that his lips were
stiff, and his voice sounded strange.

A strange harsh sob came from behind the apron. "She was all bent to
one side with that heavy suit case, as heavy as lead, for I hefted
it," said Jane Riggs, "and she couldn't have been more than fifteen.
Them outlandish girls get married awful young."

"What is it?"

"And there was poor Jack lickin' her hands, and him a dog everybody
is so scared of, and she a sinkin' down in a heap on my kitchen
floor."

"What is it?"

"She has passed away," answered Jane Riggs, "and--the baby is a boy,
and no bigger than the cat, not near as big as the cat when I come to
look at him, and I put some of my old flannels and my shimmy on him,
and Doctor Sturtevant has got him in my darning basket, all lined
with newspapers, the New York _Sun_, and the _Times_ and hot water
bottles, and it's all happened in the best chamber, and I call it
pretty goings on."

Jane Riggs gave vent to discordant sobs. Her apron crackled. Von
Rosen took hold of her shoulders. "Go straight back up there," he
ordered.

"Why could