Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the room without speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried voice, “I don't want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me send me word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here.” “Why? Is anything wrong?” “Yes.” “What?” “Edith isn't satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was.” “What did you tell her?” “I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba.” “Do you think she would know me?” “Can't tell; wouldn't like to run the risk of her seeing you here. Pull down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, that she had a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom she had never seen before.” “Indeed!” and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face. “The baby isn't living?” Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a whisper. “Yes.” “Oh, it can't be! Are you sure?” “Yes; I saw it day before yesterday.” “You did! Where?” “On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman.” “You are deceiving me!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger in her voice. “As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It 'most made me sick.” “It's impossible! You could not know that it was Edith's baby.” “I do know,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on Mrs. Dinneford's mind. “Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?” “No; she got rid of it in less than a month.” “What did she do with it?” “Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she received from you in drink and lottery-policies.” “Sold it for five dollars!” “Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they receive, lying all night in some miserable den.” Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver. “What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?” she asked. “They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night.” “Do you know where this woman lives?” “Yes.” “Were you ever there?” “Yes.” “What kind of a place is it?” “Worse than a dog-kennel.” “What does all this mean?” demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed excitement. “Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when you knew I wished it lost sight of?” “I had my own reasons,” replied Mrs. Bray. “One doesn't know what may come of an affair like this, and it's safe to keep well up with it.” Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A faint rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An expression of alarm crossed her face. “Go now,” she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; “I will call and see you this afternoon.”