nature, unequally mated, to forget itself. When they met she indulged the habit of regarding Mrs. Libby with eyes of latent pity, till one day she heard something that gave her more relief than she could ever have hoped for. This was the fact, perfectly ascertained by some summer sojourners in the neighborhood; that Mrs. Libby was turning her professional training to account by treating the sick children among her husband’s operatives. In the fall Miss Gleason saw her heroine at an exhibition of pictures. She rushed across the main hall of the Museum to greet her. “Congratulate you!” she deeply whispered, “on realizing your _dream!_ Now you are _happy_, now you can be at _peace!_” “Happy? At peace?” “In the good _work_ you have taken up. Oh, nothing, under Gawd, is lost!” she exclaimed, getting ready to run away, and speaking with her face turned over her shoulder towards Mrs. Libby. “Dream? Good work? What do you mean?” “Those factory children!” “Oh!” said Mrs. Libby coldly, “that was my husband’s idea.” “Your husband’s!” cried Miss Gleason, facing about again, and trying to let a whole history of suddenly relieved anxiety speak in her eyes. “_How_ happy you make me! _Do_ let me thank you!” In the effort to shake hands with Mrs. Libby she knocked the catalogue out of her hold, and vanished in the crowd without knowing it. Some gentleman picked it up, and gave it to her again, with a bow of burlesque devotion. Mrs. Libby flushed tenderly. “I might have known it would be you, Walter. Where _did_ you spring from?” “I’ve been here ever since you came.” “What in the world doing?” “Oh, enjoying myself.” “Looking at the pictures?” “Watching you walk round:” “I thought you couldn’t be enjoying the pictures,” she said simply. “I’m not.”