"Oh, please--please, Mrs. Sewall," I interrupted. "Your opinions _do_ count. I've wanted to tell you so before. I was sorry to leave you as I did. I've wanted to explain how truly I desired to please you. I would have done anything within my power except----I couldn't do that one special thing, _anything_ but that." Mrs. Sewall raised her hand to silence me. There was displeasure in her eyes. "We will not refer to it, please," she replied. "It is over. I prefer not to discuss it. It is not a matter to be disposed of with a few light words. I have not come here to discuss with you what is beyond your comprehension. Pain caused by a heedless girl, or a steel knife, is not less keen because of the heartlessness of either instrument. I have come purely on business. We will not wander further." There was a pause. Mrs. Sewall was tapping her bag with a rapid, nervous little motion. I was keeping my hands folded tightly in my lap. We were both making an effort to control our feelings. We sat opposite each other without saying anything for a moment. It was I who spoke at last. "Very well," I resumed. "What is the business, Mrs. Sewall? Perhaps," I suggested coldly, "I have failed to return something that belongs to you." "No," replied Mrs. Sewall. "On the contrary, I have something here that belongs to _you_." She held up a package. "Your work-bag. It was found by the butler on the mantel in the library." "Oh, how careless! I'm sorry. It was of no consequence." My cheeks flamed. It hurt me keenly that Mrs. Sewall should insult the dignity of our relations by a matter so trivial. My work-bag indeed! Behind her, in the desk, were a few sheets of her stationery! I rose and took the bag. "Thank you," I said briefly. "Not at all," she replied. I waited a moment. Then, as she did not move, I inquired, "Shall I call your maid, or will you allow me to take you to your car?" Mrs. Sewall did not reply. I became aware of something unnatural in her attitude. I noticed her tightly clasped hands. "Oh, Mrs. Sewall!" I exclaimed. She was ill. I was sure of it now. She was deathly pale. I kneeled down on the floor and took her hands. "You are not well. Let me help--please. You are in pain." She spoke at last. "Call Marie," she ordered, and drew her hands away. I sped down to the waiting car. Marie seemed to comprehend before I spoke. "Oh! Another attack! Mon Dieu! The tablets! I have them. They are here. Make haste. It is the heart. They are coming more often--the attacks. Emotion--and then afterwards the pain. She had one yesterday, late in the afternoon. And now tonight again. Mon Dieu--Mon Dieu! The pain is terrible." All this from Marie as we hastened up the stairs.