"Don't get excited! You'll find her over at the east entrance," said the policeman in his mechanical formula. He was struggling with the crowd and had not quite caught the description. Mrs. Pennybacker turned around to find John Harcourt doubled up with laughter. "You rascal! You'll die of some sort of degeneracy of the heart long before I'm eighty-five!" For hours the tide set in through the east entrance and swirled and ebbed and flowed. When at last the gates closed upon the throng the De Jarnette party sought the Ellipse, where the children had been promised a lunch. Harcourt and Bess had fallen behind the others. As they reached the seats beneath the trees he said wheedlingly to Mrs. Pennybacker, "I don't think your little girl has had a very good time to-day. She hasn't had any eggs, or balloon, or anything. Suppose you let me give her a row up the river just to keep her from feeling neglected." Then looking at the basket, "We'll take the portion that falls to us and eat it on the way." When the two were gone and the children had had their lunch and gone off to play, the two ladies sat and watched them. "How nicely they play together," remarked Margaret. "Yes," said Mrs. Pennybacker absently. "Margaret, I am quite disturbed about Rosalie. I don't know what to make of her lately." "What is the trouble? Has she had any more of those fainting spells?" "Never since the first one. The nurse thought she was likely to have them at any time, but she has never had another. Queer what caused that." "Weakness, I suppose. And yet she grows weaker every day." "Yes, Margaret, somehow she has never seemed the same to me since that day. You know how happy she was when she first came. We were speaking that very morning, I remember, about the look of peace that had come into her face." "Yes. She had lost that distressed expression. Do you suppose she can feel hurt at my being with her so little these days?" "No, it isn't that. Sometimes I think she is more troubled after you have been there than at any other time. The nurse even has noticed it. Sometimes I think she has something on her mind still--something she wants to tell." "Why, she has told me everything. It can't be that." "I told her about the bill one day, feeling that it would do her good to have something new to think about. She seemed to feel quite a little interested in it. Asks me from time to time how it is getting along, and always if it will give you Philip. She seemed greatly troubled over what Judge Kirtley said." "A mother's sympathy. I suppose. Poor girl!" "I guess it must have been that. But it's queer. It was that very day that I heard her moaning to herself--she didn't know I was in the room--and I went to her and said, 'Rosalie, what is it that troubles you?' She looked up at me in such a distressed way and said, 'Oh, I have been a wicked woman! If I could only confess--'" "Confess!"