“Scarcely any thing beyond the common-place topics that come up on formal visits. But I penetrated deep enough into her mind to discover the 'aching void' there, which she has been so vainly endeavoring to fill. I do not think she meant to let me see this abyss of wretchedness; but her efforts to hide it were in vain. Unhappy one! She has been seeking to quench an immortal thirst at broken cisterns which can hold no water.” “Can you do her any good, Constance?” I asked. “If we would do good, we must put ourselves in the way,” she replied. “Nothing is gained by standing afar off.” “Then you mean to call upon her again?” “She held my hand at parting, with such an earnest pressure, and looked at me so kindly when she said, 'Your visit has been very pleasant,' that I saw the way plain before me.” “You will wait until she returns your call?” “I cannot say. It will depend upon the way things shape themselves in my mind. If I can do her good, I shall not stand upon etiquette.” As I came in sight of my modest little home a few days afterwards, I saw the stylish carriage of Mrs. Dewey dash away from my door, taking a direction opposite to that by which I was approaching. “How are the mighty fallen!” It was hardly a good spirit by whom this thought was quickened, for I was conscious of something like a feeling of triumph. With an effort I repressed the ungenerous state of mind. “So your call has been returned,” said I, on entering our sitting room. “Yes. How did you know?” Constance looked up, smiling, but curious. “I saw Mrs. Dewey's carriage leave our door as I turned into the street. Did she come in, or only leave her card?” “She came in, and sat for half an hour.” “And made herself very agreeable,--was patronizing, and all that?” “No--nothing of the kind suggested by your words.” And Constance looked at me reproachfully. “She was, on the contrary, quiet, subdued, and womanly. I called to see her, with the manner of one who had about her no consciousness of inferiority; and she returned the call, without a sign that I could regard as offensive.” “It is well,” I answered, coming back into my better state. “If true friends can take the place of false friends, who left her the moment a shadow fell upon her good name, then the occasion of blame may pave the way to life instead of ruin. There must be remains of early and better states covered up and hidden away in her soul, but not lost; and by means of these she may be saved--yet, I fear, that only through deep suffering will the overlying accretions of folly be broken away.” “She is in the hands of one to whom all spirits are precious,” said Constance, meekly; “and if we can aid in His good work of restoration and salvation, our reward shall be great.”