what
brought back too much of the past to fortify her for the impending
struggle. She had to do credit to his choice, to impress a difficult
woman with her dignity as a wife. She must not shake nor weep.

Yet when she heard a step at the door, instinct told her to pull down her
veil till the first greetings were over--a precaution for which she was
deeply grateful when in another moment a young woman entered instead of
her husband's mother for whom she had asked and whom she naturally
expected to see.

In the humiliation of the moment, her disappointment took words and she
muttered within herself:

"A companion or possibly a relative. I am to be put off with kindly
excuses; begged to state my errand--rehearse my claims and my hopes to
some gentle go-between! I have not strength for that. I must see the
mother--the mother. God give me wisdom and keep me calm--calm."

Meanwhile the young woman she had instinctively called gentle advanced
into the center of the room. Mechanically, Ermentrude rose to meet her,
and thus stepped into a better light. Tragedy came with her. This it was
impossible not to see--not to feel. But the warning which her aspect gave
passed as she spoke and said in tones a little tremulous, perhaps, but
with an air of perfect courtesy:

"I had hoped to see Mrs. Roberts herself."

The smile with which this was greeted, the flush of pride and the joy of
possession which lit the other's pleasing features as she replied, "I am
Mrs. Roberts," should have carried the truth to Ermentrude.

But they did not. She looked surprised--baffled, and after the briefest
hesitation, observed:

"I am a stranger in this city and have doubtless made some mistake. The
Mrs. Roberts I have called to see--and I was told she lived here--is the
mother of a gentleman of the name of----"

She could not speak it.

But the other could.

"Carleton?" she asked; and at Ermentrude's agitated nod, added with
friendly interest: "This is her home; but she has left it for a while to
us. I am Mr. Carleton Roberts' wife."

* * * * *

There are blows which prostrate; there are others which sear but leave
the body intact--feet still supporting it--eyes still gazing ahead
unmoved--lips moving with mechanical exactness and sometimes still
retaining their smile. Only the soul which gave life to all of this is
dead. The image is there but the spirit is gone; and if sufficiently
preoccupied, the one wh