Julie knew that she had raced back to tell her mistress of the return. She knew that the latter would not believe her, but would run to the window to peer out herself, and that, then catching unmistakable sight of Julie, she would go to the phone and ring up different intimates to impart the news to them, using cryptic sentences supposed to baffle any eavesdropper on the wire. Julie knew that even now Mrs. Randolph’s incredulous eyes were fixed upon her back as she continued along the street. She knew her village, she knew what she had done and what she would have to face, yet it could not break that high serenity in which she moved. There was, too, a great peace in the thought that here all was known. It was a part of her standing square with the world. There would not be here any sudden pistol-shot, or the vision of an old woman on the floor, brought to that end by what she had done. As she went along the street, she heard a little frightened mewing, and looking down perceived a gray kitten backed against the palings of one of the garden fences. It was very small and helpless, and in its wide kitten-eyes was a passion of terror. It had been chased by dogs and boys and rolled in the dust, and one little paw was bleeding. Its agony, its baby helplessness, and soft hurt paw stabbed Julie with an infinite compassion. She dropped her bag and stooped quickly down. “Poor little kitsy--poor little kitsy,” she murmured tenderly. The little frightened creature squeezed itself harder than ever against the fence, spitting helplessly at Julie’s hand and trying to strike with its tiny paw. “Don’t be scared, kitsy--poor little kitsy, there ain’t anything to be scared of--nothing to be scared of any more,” Julie comforted it. She gathered the little trembling body up, pressing it close to her warm neck; and so, with the kitten held against her breast, she came at last to her own little shop. Suddenly, as she looked at it staring out upon the street with its shuttered blank eyes, something clutched her throat. For one sharp suffocating moment she almost saw her mother stand there, her apron blowing in the wind as of old. “_Mother!_ I’ve come home, I’ve come home,” she whispered breathlessly. The side gate to her garden was broken and hanging upon one hinge. A cow had squeezed its way through, defiling the little cement walk, and trampling over and ravishing her flower beds, so that there were only a few broken chrysanthemums left. The house was completely deserted. Evidently Aunt Sadie was still away with her daughter.