hough he always admired you, deah. There was an actress that he was
crazy about last winter--a nice girl, too, and he would have married
her if it hadn't been for Katherine, who was _wild_ over it, said such
a mesalliance in the family would ruin her as well as him, and
contrived to break it off somehow. Potter never cared for anyone else
so much. The girl seemed to understand his temper exactly, and though
he was heart and soul for winning you, after the race was begun, I
shouldn't wonder a bit--now he's lost you--if that affair didn't come
on again some day. He might do worse."

"I wish the girl joy of him," said I. "But how was it you went away
from Newport?"

"Oh, I told Kath what I thought of her for trying to trap you. It _was_
that, and nothing else. And she didn't like it. She almost asked me to
go, and though I knew it was to get me out of the way, I had to do it.
I wish you could have met Mrs. Hale in Chicago. She is the nicest,
quaintest woman. You saw her happy family? Well, she's so kind-hearted
that when her horses are out at grass, she has a big sunbonnet made for
each one. You would laugh to see them prancing about with their bonnets
flapping. And she stops cab horses in the street to give them sugar.
But after all, it's better for you to be here--with the Trowbridges."

"Mr. Brett has been a saint to me," said I.

Sally smiled her three-cornered smile.

"I think from what you tell me of some of the things you've said to
him, and some of the things which have happened, that he _has_ been a
saint--more of a saint than you know."

"You mean I've tried his temper?" I asked anxiously.

"Not exactly his temper. But never mind. I'll talk to you about myself
now."

So she did. And it seems that this invalid widow, Mrs. Randal, whom
she's come to nurse, is the mother of the man she told me about in the
Park--the man who turned monk because he loved her, and thought she
didn't care.

"I come once or twice a year, even when she's well," said Sally, with
the soft voice and eyes which she has for this one subject of all in
the world. "It's the best of the few pleasures I have, to be with her
and--talk of him; of him when he was a little boy; of him when he was a
young man, happy in the thought of the future--not knowing what was to
come. I found this little place for her, years ago now. She wasn't
happy in Kentucky, for there were relatives there who were not
congenial, and used to say things--of her son'