She covered her face with her hands and there was a long silence between us. The clock in the room seemed suddenly to commence a louder ticking; outside, the yellow leaves came fluttering to the ground, and the wet wind went sighing through the tree tops. The rain dashed against the steaming window panes. I looked away from the bowed figure before me out into the desolate road, and found my thoughts suddenly slipping away from me. I wondered where Bruce Deville was, and Olive Berdenstein. Were they together and was she succeeding in her purpose? After all what did it matter to me, a poor, nameless girl, with a shadowed past and a blank future? I sighed, and looked back into the room. The sound of her voice broke the silence, which was becoming unbearable. “I do not wish to excuse myself,” she said, softly; “nothing can excuse me. But in those days, when I was young and enthusiastic, it seemed to me that I had but to lead and the world would follow me. I thought that by the time my children were grown up--if I had children--what is called illegitimacy would be no longer a thing to fear. You see I dwelt for a little time in a fool’s elysium. Believe me that I am sharing with you the punishment--nay, mine is the greater half, for I believe that my heart is broken.” I was moved to pity then and took her hands. But as yet the veil hung between us. “I will believe that,” I said, softly; “I shall try always to remember it. I will not think hardly of you in any way. The rest must come gradually I think--no, I am sure that it will come some day.” Her eyes were soft with gratitude. She held out her hands to me, and I gave her mine freely. We spoke no more upon that subject. But perhaps what I went on to say was almost as interesting to her. I had been thinking of it for some time, now it became inevitable. “I had a purpose in coming to see you this afternoon,” I said. “I want to talk to you about it. Do you mind?” She shook her head. I continued almost immediately. “I have come to ask for your advice,” I said. “I want presently, when this trouble has passed over and Olive Berdenstein has gone away, to leave home, to take up some work of my own. In short, I want to be independent, to take my life into my own hands and shape it myself.” She looked at me with a certain wistful thoughtfulness. “Independent? Yes, you look like that,” she said, softly. “In any case I have no taste for a home life,” I continued. “After what has passed I should find it unbearable. I want active work, and plenty of it.” “That,” she said, with a sigh, “I can well understand. Yes, I know what you feel.” Not altogether, I thought to myself, with a little wan smile. She did not know everything.