true, for with a laugh the poor creature
began a babble of her child and its beauty. "Just like its father. Dark
eyes and brown hair. Won't he be glad to see it when he comes? Have you
children?" she suddenly asked Mrs. Lancaster.

"No." She shook her head.

Then a strange thing happened.

"I am so sorry for you," the poor woman said. And the next second she
added: "I want to show mine to Alice Yorke. She is the only lady I know
in New York. I used to know her when I was a young girl, and I used to
be jealous of her, because I thought Ferdy was in love with her. But he
was not, never a bit."

"Come away," said Mr. Rimmon to Mrs. Lancaster. "She is crazy and may
become violent."

But he was too late; the whole truth was dawning on Mrs. Lancaster. A
faint likeness had come to her, a memory of a far-back time. She ignored
him, and stepped closer to the bed.

"What is your name?" she asked in a kind voice, bending toward the woman
and taking her hand.

"Euphronia Tripper; but I am now Mrs. Wickersham. He married us." She
turned her deep eyes on Mr. Rimmon. At sight of him a change came
over her face.

"Where is my husband?" she demanded. "I wrote to you to bring him. Won't
you bring him?"

"Quite mad--quite mad!" repeated Mr. Rimmon, shaking his head solemnly,
and turning his gaze on Mrs. Lancaster. But he saw his peril. Mrs.
Lancaster took no notice of him. She began to talk to the woman at the
door, and gave her a few directions, together with some money. Then she
advanced once more to the bed.

"I want to make you comfortable. I will send some one to take care of
you." She shook hands with her softly, pulled down her veil, and then,
half turning to Mr. Rimmon, said quietly, "I am ready."

As they stepped into the street, Mr. Rimmon observed at a little
distance a man who had something familiar about him, but the next second
he passed out of sight.

Mrs. Lancaster walked silently down the dirty street without turning
her head or speaking to the preacher, who stepped along a little behind
her, his mind full of misgiving.

Mr. Rimmon, perhaps, did as hard thinking in those few minutes as he had
ever done during the whole course of his life. It was a serious and
delicate position. His reputation, his position, perhaps even his
profession, depended on the result. He must sound his companion and
placate her at any cost.

"That is one of the saddest spectacles I ever saw," he began.

To this Mrs. Lancaster