The answer was a slow lifting of the veil which shadowed the features she knew only from the cuts she had seen in newspapers. “You are--Miss Strange?” stammered her visitor; “the young lady who--” “I am,” chimed in a voice as ringing as it was sweet. “I am the person you have come here to see. And this is my home. But that does not make me less interested in the unhappy, or less desirous of serving them. Certainly you have met with the two greatest losses which can come to a woman--I know your story well enough to say that--; but what have you to tell me in proof that you should not lose your anticipated income as well? Something vital, I hope, else I cannot help you; something which you should have told the coroner’s jury--and did not.” The flush which was the sole answer these words called forth did not take from the refinement of the young widow’s expression, but rather added to it; Violet watched it in its ebb and flow and, seriously affected by it (why, she did not know, for Mrs. Hammond had made no other appeal either by look or gesture), pushed forward a chair and begged her visitor to be seated. “We can converse in perfect safety here,” she said. “When you feel quite equal to it, let me hear what you have to communicate. It will never go any further. I could not do the work I do if I felt it necessary to have a confidant.” “But you are so young and so--so--” “So inexperienced you would say and so evidently a member of what New Yorkers call ‘society.’ Do not let that trouble you. My inexperience is not likely to last long and my social pleasures are more apt to add to my efficiency than to detract from it.” With this Violet’s face broke into a smile. It was not the brilliant one so often seen upon her lips, but there was something in its quality which carried encouragement to the widow and led her to say with obvious eagerness: “You know the facts?” “I have read all the papers.” “I was not believed on the stand.” “It was your manner--” “I could not help my manner. I was keeping something back, and, being unused to deceit, I could not act quite naturally.” “Why did you keep something back? When you saw the unfavourable impression made by your reticence, why did you not speak up and frankly tell your story?” “Because I was ashamed. Because I thought it would hurt me more to speak than to keep silent. I do not think so now; but I did then--and so made my great mistake. You must remember not only the awful shock of my double loss, but the sense of guilt accompanying it; for my husband and I had quarreled that night, quarreled bitterly--that was why I had run away into another room and not because I was feeling ill and impatient of the baby’s fretful cries.” “So people have thought.” In saying this, Miss Strange was perhaps cruelly emphatic. “You wish to explain that quarrel? You think it will be doing any good to your cause to go into that matter with me now?”