“Margaret!” exclaimed the old lady, pausing, with her skirts gathered up and her foot on her carriage-step, just the shadow of surprised restraint in her manner, the indefinable change that greets the altered social scale; “I’m--I’m delighted to see you! And how are you, my dear?” “Well,” Margaret replied, with an odd little laugh, for her quick ear had caught the note; “don’t I look so?” The bird of paradise on Mrs. O’Neal’s hat trembled. “No,” she said flatly, “you don’t; you need building up, you should go to the country for awhile. I’m due at bridge now or I should make you get in and drive with me.” “Thank you, I couldn’t,” Margaret replied, with forced calm; “I wish you luck at cards instead.” Mrs. O’Neal glanced at her coachman, stiff and expressionless upon the box, then she leaned over and put a gentle hand on the younger woman’s arm. “My dear, I congratulate you,” she murmured, “you’re lucky to be free; I was so shocked to read this morning that Mr. White had married Lily Osborne yesterday.” Margaret suppressed her start of surprise. “Has he?” she said, “I forgot to read the paper, and Gerty misses everything except the ninety-eight cent bargains.” “Yesterday--in New York!” said Mrs. O’Neal tragically; “I hope you’ve got the children.” Margaret quietly withdrew her arm. “Thanks, yes,” she said; “I’m afraid you’ll be late for your bridge.” * * * * * As she walked on, her heart sank. Lily Osborne--of course she had known it would be so! But if anything happened to her and Mrs. White died--poor Estelle! The cry of the child pursued her. Until now she had thought only of herself, of her own misery, but the touch, the voice of the little girl had reached her very soul; after lying dormant and unknown all those years it was awakening, awakening to a reality so dreadful that it was appalled, without hope, desolate. And shame, the shame of a woman’s heart swept over her and shook her being to its depths. The humiliation which comes upon a woman when she knows, by some overwhelming perception, that her love is not fully returned; she felt as if she had stripped her soul naked and left it lying in the dust at Fox’s feet. She walked on; agony winged her feet and she could not be still; she avoided the places which she knew, and turned down strange streets and byways. She had no thought of time. It grew late, the short winter day drew to its close; still she walked on. While her strength endured she went on,--it seemed as if pursuing fate drove her. She was not physically strong, yet she was walking beyond the endurance of most women.