Ross arose, and stood a moment, waiting for Mrs. Laurence to advance; for, though everything was humble, and even poverty-stricken around them, he felt that these women were naturally far above the level of their appearance. “I have intruded, Madam, perhaps rudely,” he said, at last; “but having met one of your children by accident, her resemblance to one—to an old friend—was so striking, that I ventured to inquire about her here.” Mrs. Laurence seemed more than usually disturbed by this speech; she turned a cold glance on her visitor, and said, “I cannot remember of ever seeing you before, sir; there must be some mistake.” Ross looked searchingly at the woman, as she spoke; her voice was firm and somewhat harsh; her reception of his polite address a little repellant; but she motioned him to take a seat, and occupied one herself, putting down her sleeves, which had been rolled up to the elbows. “I once knew a man of your name,” said Ross, regarding the woman with a look of hesitation. “Was he a policeman?” questioned Mrs. Laurence. “Not while I knew him. We were boys in the same school.” “How long was that ago?” “More than twenty years—that is, it is almost that since we parted.” Mrs. Laurence reflected a moment, then lifting her face, said, “Well?” “He was the dearest friend I ever had. When I left him, he promised to watch over my interests, to——” “May I ask your name,” said Mrs. Laurence now keenly aroused. “Ross—Herman Ross.” Mrs. Laurence turned her eyes from the face she had been studying with a sort of terror, and her voice grew low and hoarse as she questioned him further. “And the name of your friend—his full name?” “Leonard—Leonard Laurence.” “That was father’s name,” said Ruth, in a half whisper, looking at her mother, who groaned heavily, without saying a word. Low as the words were spoken, Ross heard them, and his face kindled. “Then, young lady, your father was my close friend, and loved me like a brother. Will you not trust and like me a little for his sake?” “I love everything that he loved,” said Ruth, with tears in her eyes; and she held out her frail little hand, which Ross took, reverently; then he turned to the other woman with a look of touching appeal. “And you are Leonard Laurence’s wife. I remember seeing you once, a fair, young bride.” The iron muscles about the woman’s mouth began to quiver, and a flush came around her pale-blue eyes. “There is a long weary stretch between now and then,” she said, turning away her face. “There is, indeed!” responded Ross, with a sigh, which stirred his bosom with the force of a groan. “A long, weary stretch; full of desolation to more than you and me.” “It gave him a violent death, and me widowhood like this,” said the woman, turning cold and white. “The boy told me something of this, but I was not sure it was the same man. I hoped to find him alive and prosperous. This is a hard, hard blow to a man who had so few friends.”