Then, taking a chair between the two dames I told the story of Edith’s life, interrupted frequently by questions and ejaculations from my auditors, both of whom were more amazed than they had ever been before in their lives. Mrs. Tiffe was the first to recover herself. _She_ had the family dignity to maintain, and she was going to do it, and while she condemned the _Fordham woman_ out and out, she stood firmly by Edith as more sinned against than sinning, and said that she for one thought more of her than ever, and that every right-minded person would agree with her, of course. Mrs. Noall, who was usually chary of offending Mrs. Tiffe, fully agreed with her, and both expressed unbounded delight that the lost child had proved to be Gertie Westbrooke, whom everybody loved. “And that’s what makes her sick, and why Mrs. Schuyler has gone to her. I see,—yes, I understand,” Mrs. Noall said, and though she had intended stopping to dinner with Mrs. Tiffe, she declared that she must go at once, and she went, and to my certain knowledge made twenty calls before ten o’clock at night, and told the story twenty times without varying it in the least. Of course there was nothing more for me to do except to answer the questions of those who came on purpose to inquire if what they had heard was true. Never before had I received so many calls within a given time as I did during the few days of excitement when Hampstead was alive with the story, and reminiscences of the Fordhams were brought up and comments of various kinds were made, according to the nature of those who made them. I think Mrs. Barton from the Ridge was the most disturbed; she had spent the winter in Hampstead, and she came to see me early, and stayed three hours, and talked the matter over, and wished that it had not been made public. Mrs. Barton was a kind, good woman at heart, but very proud and particular about family and blood, and I knew she was thinking of Tom, who still avowed his intention to marry Gertie or nobody, and so I flamed up in Edith’s defence, and said she was resolved to have no more concealments, that I _had_ suggested to her the propriety of not telling who her first husband was, as that was sure to increase the talk and wonder. “Mrs. Barton,” I continued, “you ought to have seen her then, and heard how piteously she cried as she said to me, ‘No, Ettie, I’ve thought that over, and talked it over with Col. Schuyler, who is willing for me to do as I like. To conceal it would look as if I was ashamed of Abelard, and I am not. He was my husband and I loved him, and Gertie and the world shall know who her father was.’” “Noble woman!” Mrs. Barton exclaimed, crying a little herself. “I think she is right after all, and for one I shall stand by her.”