e cousin's name?"

"She called her Alice, but her name was Mrs. George B. Edison."

"That's jest where the kid has went," said Gladys. "You go right
home, M'ria. We'll go with you, and I'll bet a cooky you'll find that
your step-ma has had a telegram."

Maria hesitated a moment; then she started, Wollaston Lee still
keeping close hold of her arm. Gladys was on the other side.

Chapter XIV

When Maria reached home, she pushed open the front door, which was
unlocked, and rushed violently in. Wollaston and Gladys followed her,
after a slight hesitation, but remained standing in the vestibule.
When Maria had come in sight of the house, she had perceived the
regular motion of a rocking female head past the parlor light, and
she knew that it was Ida. Ida nearly always occupied a rocking-chair,
and was fond of the gentle, swaying motion.

"There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn't lost," Maria
thought, with the bitterest revulsion and sarcasm. When she opened
the door she immediately smelled tea, the odor of broiling beefsteak
and fried potatoes. "Eating just as if the baby wasn't lost," she
thought. She rushed into the parlor, and there was Ida swaying back
and forth in her rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her.
One was Mrs. Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs.
Adams, perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; one
was the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs.
Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate--her husband had
a degree. Her sister had just died and she was dressed in the deepest
mourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she produced a curious
effect of a vacuum of grief. Mrs. Adams, who was quite young and very
pretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly; Mrs. Jonas White was
sniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was ponderously religious,
asked once in a while, in a subdued manner, if Mrs. Edgham did not
think it would be advisable to unite in prayer.

Ida made no reply. She continued to rock, and she had a curious set
expression. Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to restrain
that radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with her. She
looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a Tiffany vase
which stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold against a
skilful background of crimson velvet. It was as if she were having
her photograph taken and had been requested by the photographer to