“I just had a bet up with Mrs. Barry, Sim Carter! She must think I'm blind. I told her you left a letter at her house this morning, and she says she never saw hair nor hide of it.” “It is there all right,” the man laughed. “I gave it to Miss Dora.” “That's what I told her. I say, Sim Carter, have they heard anything more yet about--” But the postman was gone. Through the window, by stooping and peering forth, Mrs. Barry could see him crossing the street to the next house. With a heart as heavy as lead she went into the parlor; Dora was not there. She passed on to the kitchen; no one was there, either. There was something incongruous in the contented aspect of the fat, gray cat lying and purring in the sunlight on the door-sill. Bliss like that under the coat of a mere dumb brute when she had this to bear--this lurking, insinuating, maddening thing, which had been creeping slowly upon her night and day until it had assumed the shape and size of a monster of mental and spiritual torture. She went on to Dora's room, where she found the girl seated on her bed. The great, long-lashed, somnolent eyes, over the exquisite beauty of which men and women had marvelled, were red as from weeping. She gave her mother, as the old woman stood in the doorway, a weary, despondent glance, and then, half startled, looked down. Mrs. Barry saw the charred remains of a sheet of writing-paper in the open fireplace, and a fresh pang darted through her. “Did you need me, mother?” Dora inquired, softly, in the musical voice so many had admired, and which to-day sounded sweeter, more appealing, than ever before. “Mrs. Chumley says you got a letter from the postman this morning,” Mrs. Barry said, tremblingly. The girl seemed to hesitate just an instant; then she nodded, mutely. “Who was it from, daughter?” “Mother, I don't want to say--even to you. I have reasons why--” “It was from Fred Walton! You need not deny it.” Dora made no protest; she simply dropped her eyes to her lap, and sat motionless. “You knew he had left, didn't you?” “Yes, mother. I knew he was gone.” “And while the whole town is wondering why he went, you know, I suppose?” “I don't feel that I have the right to talk about it, mother.” “Well, I sha'n't urge you!” And the older woman shambled away, now bearing doubts which were heavier and more maddening than ever. “Something's wrong--very, very wrong--or she wouldn't droop like that,” she said. “Oh, God have mercy, I'm actually afraid to question my own child! I am afraid to even do that!” The sun went down, the night came on; workingmen, women, and children passed along on their homeward way from the cotton and woolen mills, carrying their dinner-pails. The very cheerfulness of their faces, lightness of step, and merry jesting with one another sent shafts of misery to the heart of the brooding woman. When she had put the supper on the table she went to the daughter's room and told her it was ready.