In the evening she grew listless and taciturn, her mind wandering from this humble abode of the poor widow to the grand mansion on Fifth Avenue, where her beautiful, stately mother reigned supreme, and where Cora was now perhaps receiving Frank and renewing their vows of love. “Perhaps when he sees her again his heart will turn back to her with the old love. How could he help it when once he loved her so well? He will soon forget poor Jessie, and that will be the best,” she thought, but so inconsistent is love that hot tears welled to her eyes at the fancy. Then Widow Doyle ran in with the evening paper, which she had borrowed from a neighbor. Jessie took it and glanced indifferently at the columns, thinking that the news of New York had but little interest for a sad heart like her own. But presently she found herself quite mistaken, for her eyes lighted on a paragraph of vital importance to herself. It ran briefly: “Mrs. Verna Dalrymple, of No. 1512A Fifth Avenue, continues very ill with no prospects of recovery. Indeed, her death is hourly expected. The Four Hundred will thus lose one of its brightest ornaments, and the poor of the city one of their most charitable benefactors. It is a source of regret that so brilliant and beneficent a life should be thus untimely cut down in the prime of beauty and intellect.” A cruel pain like a sharp thorn pierced Jessie’s heart as she clutched the newspaper in her rigid hands, staring at the fatal paragraph with dilated eyes. She could not stay away from her mother as she had planned. She must go to her at once and receive her dying blessing. Stifling back a choking sob, she rose to her feet, exclaiming eagerly: “Mrs. Doyle, I have just read in this paper of the serious illness of a very dear friend of mine on Fifth Avenue. If I could get a cab I would go to her at once.” “There is a cab stand on the next block. I’ll get you one at once.” “Thank you--God bless you!” Jessie sobbed, and while the good woman was gone she slipped on her hat and jacket and stood impatiently waiting, her heart sinking with fear lest her mother should be dead ere she reached her side. The cab arrived speedily, and Mrs. Doyle asked hospitably: “Shall you return, my dear, to-night?” “It is not likely, but you shall certainly hear from me to-morrow. Good night, dear, kind friend,” and with a word of direction to the chauffeur she was gone. While Mrs. Doyle was wondering over Jessie’s sudden departure, there came a hasty knock on the door, and when she opened it there stood that black sheep of a stepson of hers that she had not seen for two years--the redoubtable Carey Doyle. Slouching carelessly in, and falling into a seat, he said amiably: “How-do, old lady?”