The wonder was so apparent in her eyes that his keen glance softened. “Why,” she said bewilderingly, “I have been his dog, his slave,--as far as he would let me. I have done everything; I have not been out of the house until he almost drove me out. I have never wanted to go anywhere or see any one; but he has always insisted upon it. I would have been willing to slave here, day and night, and have been happy. But he said I must not seem to be ashamed of my past, when he is not. I would have worn common homespun clothes and calico frocks, and been glad of it, but he insists upon my wearing my best things, even my theatre things; and as he can't afford to buy more, I wear these things I had. I know they look beastly here, and that I'm a laughing-stock, and when I go out I wear almost anything to try and hide them; but,” her lip quivered dangerously again, “he wants me to do it, and it pleases him.” Jack looked down. After a pause he lifted his lashes towards her draggled skirt, and said in an easier, conversational tone, “Yes! I thought I knew that dress. I gave it to you for that walking scene in 'High Life,' didn't I?” “No,” she said quickly, “it was the blue one with silver trimming,--don't you remember? I tried to turn it the first year I was married, but it never looked the same.” “It was sweetly pretty,” said Jack encouragingly, “and with that blue hat lined with silver, it was just fetching! Somehow I don't quite remember this one,” and he looked at it critically. “I had it at the races in '58, and that supper Judge Boompointer gave us at 'Frisco where Colonel Fish upset the table trying to get at Jim. Do you know,” she said, with a little laugh, “it's got the stains of the champagne on it yet; it never would come off. See!” and she held the candle with great animation to the breadth of silk before her. “And there's more of it on the sleeve,” said Jack; “isn't there?” Mrs. Rylands looked reproachfully at Jack. “That isn't champagne; don't you know what it is?” “No!” “It's blood,” she said gravely; “when that Mexican cut poor Ned so bad,--don't you remember? I held his head upon my arm while you bandaged him.” She heaved a little sigh, and then added, with a faint laugh, “That's the worst thing about the clothes of a girl in the profession, they get spoiled or stained before they wear out.” This large truth did not seem to impress Mr. Hamlin. “Why did you leave Santa Clara?” he said abruptly, in his previous critical tone. “Because of the folks there. They were standoffish and ugly. You see, Josh”-- “Who?” “Josh Rylands!--HIM! He told everybody who I was, even those who had never seen me in the bills,--how good I was to marry him, how he had faith in me and wasn't ashamed,--until they didn't believe we were married at all. So they looked another way when they met us, and didn't call. And all the while I was glad they didn't, but he wouldn't believe it, and allowed I was pining on account of it.” “And were you?”