Helen finally went to her room to practice her evening toilette. At five o’clock she was dressed and standing before the mirror studying this cream-colored frock of crêpe, that clung to her figure like long folded wings. It was not “trimmed.” She insisted upon a certain primness, as good women do who have no sense of style. Some women live and die so virginal that they never know why other women wear a rose, or display the sparkle of a jewel upon their breast. If they put on these invitations to love it is merely copying the universal feminine custom. They do not know how to mean the rose or catch the sparkle of the jewel in their manner. Helen wore no invitations. She was simply anxious to look the mistress of this establishment, never to be mistaken for a dutiful servant. The horror she had felt of this impending fate since shortly after her marriage, when she knew that she was not to have children, and the long sentence she had actually served in this capacity rankled. A bell rang somewhere in the house. She paid no attention, since she had no visitors and the front door bell never rang except when something was delivered. A moment later there was a tap on her door and the maid entered. “Some one to see you, Mrs. Cutter,” she announced. “Who is she?” “A man.” “Not Read?” referring to one of the workmen. “No, Mrs. Cutter; this is a gentleman. I left him in the parlor.” Helen frowned. “He is somebody. I am sure of that. And he said that you knew him,” the woman explained. “That I knew him? Then he--why, it must be Mr. Arnold,” Helen said. Arnold was the only man in Shannon who might have any reason for calling on her. The woman hesitated, gave her mistress a fluttering glance as if some sort of gibbering, peeping thought had suddenly popped up in her mind. “This is not Mr. Arnold,” she said. “I think he is a stranger. Shall I tell him you are not at home?” “I will see him; but hereafter, Charlotte, I am not at home to any one who does not give his name.” “Yes, Mrs. Cutter,” Charlotte answered meekly, closing the door behind her. Then she glanced again at the crumpled bill she held in her hand, thrust it into her pocket, wrinkled her nose, sniffed and discreetly disappeared.