and, thinking--thinking. Then, into her
peace, broke again the memory of Edith's distress. "Perhaps I ought to
tell her that I went to the river for Maurice's sake? _Not_ because I
was angry at her." She thought of Edith's tears, and said, "Poor
Edith--" And when she said that a strange thing happened: pity, like a
soft breath, blew out the vehement flame. It is always so; pity and
jealousy are never together....

The next morning she remembered her words about Jacky--"the kind of home
he ought to have"--and again uneasiness as to the kind of "home" it
would be for Maurice rose in her mind. Her head whirled with worry. "It
won't be pleasant for him to live with her, even if she can cook. He
loves that chocolate cake; but he couldn't bear her grammar. Edith said
I was 'unkind' to him. Am I? I suppose she thought he'd be happier with
her? Would he? _She_ can make that cake, too. Yes; he would be happier
with her than with Lily;--and Jacky would call her 'Mother,"' Then she
forgot Edith.

After a while she said: "Maurice, can't I see Jacky? Go get him! And
give Lily the car fare."

Maurice went downstairs and called Mrs. Houghton out of the parlor; in
the hall he said: "I think Eleanor's sort of mixed up. She is talking
about 'Lily's car fare'! What do you suppose she means? Is
she--delirious? And then she says she 'wants to see Jacky.' What must I
do?"

"Go and get him," she said.

For a bewildered minute he hesitated. If Mrs. Newbolt should see Jacky,
she ... would _know_! And Edith ... would she suspect? Still he
went--like a man in a dream. As he got off the car, a block from Lily's
door, a glimpse of the far-off end of the route where "Eleanor's meadow"
lay, made his purpose still more dreamlike. But he was abruptly direct
with Lily: he had come, he said, to tell her that his wife wanted--

"My soul and body!" she broke in; "if she's sent you--" They were in the
dining room, Maurice so pale that Lily, in real alarm, had put her hand
on his arm and made him sit down. But she was angry. "Has she got on to
that again?"

His questioning bewilderment brought her explanation.

"She didn't tell you she'd been here? Well, I promised her I wouldn't
give her away to you, and I _wouldn't_,--but so long as she's sent you,
now, there's no harm, I guess, telling you?" So she told him. "What
possessed you to let on to her?" she ended. She was puzzled at his
folly, but she was sympathetic, too. "I suppose she ragged it out