reatly,
revealing a withered face, narrow and long, with a singularly white
skin. She had the look of a respectable working woman, and her
black-gloved hands were folded over a neat paper package. Her curious
glance turned toward the lady beside her, and seemed to find
satisfaction in the elegance that even the darkness could not quite
conceal. She moved nearer, and with a birdlike twist of the head, leaned
forward and frankly gazed in her companion's face. The other did not
resent the action.

The woman slowly nodded her head. "Don't know what she's doin', not she.
She's one of the silly kind." She put out a hand like a claw, and
touched Mrs. Marteen's shoulder. Mrs. Marteen turned her flushed and
troubled face toward the woman with something akin to intelligence in
her eyes. "What are you settin' here fur, lady?" asked the woman
harshly. "Watchin' his house? Well, it's no use; he won't come out again
for you or your likes--never again, never again," and she chuckled.

"I was here last night. I sat here last night," said Mrs. Marteen, her
mind reverting to its last conscious moment.

The woman peered at her closely, striving to see through the meshes of
the veil where the electric light touched her cheek.

"You did? What fur? Was he comin' out to ye, or did ye want to be let
inside?"

The insult was lost on the sufferer.

The woman shifted her position, and changed her tone to one of cunning
ingratiation.

"Goin' to the funeral?" she inquired, and without waiting for an answer,
continued to talk. "I am. I won't be asked, of course--they don't know
I'm here; but I'm goin'. I wouldn't miss it--no, not for--nothing. I
ought to have some crape, I know, but I don't see's I can. It would be
the right thing, though. I'll ride in a carriage," she boasted. "I
suppose they'll have black horses. I haven't seen anything back where I
come from, so's I'd know just what _is_ the fashionable thing. It'll be
a fashionable funeral, won't it? He's a great big man, he is. Everybody
knows him--and everybody _don't_ know him; but I do--he's a devil I And
women love him, always did love him, the fools! Why, _I_ used to love
him. You wouldn't think that now, would you? Well, I did." She laughed a
broken cackle, and seemed surprised that her listener remained mute.
"Did you love him?" demanded the crone sneeringly.

"Love him--love him?" exclaimed Mrs. Marteen, her emotions responding
where her mind was unreceptive. "I hated him--I h