But, truly, deeply incensed as he was, and felt it his right to be, hurt, wrung, exasperated, he did not advance. She had reached down and taken from the wash-bench the lump of yellow soap that lay there, and was soaping the garment on the board before her, turning it this way and that. As she did this she began, all to herself and for her own ear, softly, with unconscious richness and tenderness of voice, to sing. And what was her song? "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?" Down drooped the listener's head. Remember? Ah, memory!--The old, heart-rending memory! Sweet Alice! "Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?" Yes, yes; so brown!--so brown! "She wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown." Ah! but the frown is gone! There is a look of supplication now. Sing no more! Oh, sing no more! Yes, surely, she will stop there! No. The voice rises gently--just a little--into the higher key, soft and clear as the note of a distant bird, and all unaware of a listener. Oh! in mercy's name-- "In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of granite so gray, And sweet Alice lies under the stone." The little toiling figure bent once more across the wash-board and began to rub. He turned, the first dew of many a long year welling from each eye, and stole away, out of the little yard and down the dark, slippery alley, to the street. Mrs. Riley still stood on the door-sill, holding the child. "Good-evening, madam!" "Sur, to you." She bowed with dignity. "Is Mrs. Richling in?" There was a shadow of triumph in her faint smile. "She is." "I should like to see her." Mrs. Riley hoisted her chin. "I dunno if she's a-seein' comp'ny to-day." The voice was amiably important. "Wont ye walk in? Take a seat and sit down, sur, and I'll go and infarm the laydie." "Thank you," said the Doctor, but continued to stand. Mrs. Riley started and stopped again. "Ye forgot to give me yer kyaird, sur." She drew her chin in again austerely. "Just say Dr. Sevier." "Certainly, sur; yes, that'll be sufficiend. And dispinse with the kyaird." She went majestically. The Doctor, left alone, cast his uninterested glance around the smart little bare-floored parlor, upon its new, jig-sawed, gray hair-cloth furniture, and up upon a picture of the Pope. When Mrs. Riley, in a moment, returned he stood looking out the door. "Mrs. Richling consints to see ye, sur. She'll be in turreckly. Take a seat and sit down." She readjusted the infant on her arm and lifted and swung a hair-cloth arm-chair toward him without visible exertion. "There's no use o' having chayers if ye don't sit on um," she added affably.