us."

But he was surprised to hear the woman by his side say insistently,
"Charles, if only to please me, vow that you will keep most secret this
dreadful dream. I fear that if it should come to your Aunt Felwake's
ears----"

"That I swear it shall not," said Charles sullenly.

And he kept his word.

THE WOMAN FROM PURGATORY

"... not dead, this friend--not dead,
But, in the path we mortals tread,
Got some few, little steps ahead
And nearer to the end,
So that you, too, once past the bend,
Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend
You fancy dead."

I

Mrs. Barlow, the prettiest and the happiest and the best dressed of the
young wives of Summerfield, was walking toward the Catholic Church. She
was going to consult the old priest as to her duty to an unsatisfactory
servant; for Agnes Barlow was a conscientious as well as a pretty and a
happy woman.

Foolish people are fond of quoting a foolish gibe: "Be good, and you may
be happy; but you will not have a good time." The wise, however, soon
become aware that if, in the course of life's journey, you achieve
goodness and happiness, you will almost certainly have a good time too.

So, at least, Agnes Barlow had found in her own short life. Her
excellent parents had built one of the first new houses in what had then
been the pretty, old-fashioned village of Summerfield, some fifteen
miles from London. There she had been born; there she had spent
delightful years at the big convent school over the hill; there she had
grown up into a singularly pretty girl; and there, finally--it had
seemed quite final to Agnes--she had met the clever, fascinating young
lawyer, Frank Barlow.

Frank had soon become the lover all her girl friends had envied her, and
then the husband who was still--so he was fond of saying and of proving
in a dozen dear little daily ways--as much in love with her as on the
day they were married. They lived in a charming house called The Haven,
and they were the proud parents of a fine little boy, named Francis
after his father, who never had any of the tiresome ailments which
afflict other people's children.

But strange, dreadful things do happen--not often, of course, but just
now and again--even in this delightful world! So thought Agnes Barlow on
this pleasant May afternoon; for, as she walked to church, this pretty,
happy, good woman found her thoughts dwelling uncomfortably on another
woman, her s