pearance very much. I don't believe she will have any objection to
letting the children go with us. There's father's key. Run and open the
door for him and give him a nice kiss."

It was about half-past eight that evening when Mrs. Hamilton left her
own apartment and climbed the three flights of stairs to the top floor.
On the last landing she paused to get her breath before ringing the
Randalls' bell, and at that moment her ear caught the sound of music.
Some one was playing on the piano, and playing in a way that at once
attracted Mrs. Hamilton's attention. This was not the kind of music she
was accustomed to hearing through open windows or thin walls. Mrs.
Hamilton had studied music herself under some of the best teachers the
city could produce, and she knew at once that this was no ordinary
musician. She had heard that Mrs. Randall gave music lessons, but she
had never expected anything like this.

She stood quite still, listening until the piece came to an end, and
then as the last notes of the beautiful nocturne died away, she raised
her head and lightly touched the electric bell. The door was opened by
the same little girl she had seen the day before.

"Good-evening," said the visitor, smiling pleasantly, "is your mother at
home?"

"Yes," said Betty, looking very much surprised, but standing aside to
let the lady pass; "she's in the parlor playing to Jack."

Mrs. Hamilton crossed the narrow hall, and entered the small but very
neat-looking parlor. She noticed at a glance the plants in the window;
the canary in his gilt cage, and the little crippled boy lying on the
sofa. Jack's face was flushed with pleasure, and his blue eyes, full of
sweet content, rested lovingly on the figure of the lady at the piano.
At the sight of the unexpected visitor the lady rose.

"Mother," said Betty eagerly, "it's Mrs. Hamilton--Winifred Hamilton's
mother."

A slight flush rose in Mrs. Randall's cheeks, but her greeting, though
perhaps a little formal, was perfectly courteous. Mrs. Hamilton saw at a
glance that the woman at the baker's had not exaggerated when she had
described Betty's mother as "a very handsome lady." She was very tall
and stately, and she spoke in a low, refined voice. Her eyes were large
and dark, and there was a look in them that seemed to tell of
suffering--a look that went straight to Mrs. Hamilton's kind heart.

It was impossible for any one to remain long ill at ease in the society
of sweet, genial