“I found out by asking Mrs. Wallace,” continued Mrs. Wylie, following her own train of thought, and ignoring his question, “that the block on Herald Street had an establishment for making and selling ready-made clothing, so that I felt sure she did sewing, and I followed her home one day and saw her enter a stairway leading up over Mrs. Dray’s hairdressing rooms. I accordingly asked Mrs. Dray if she could tell me where I might find a woman to do plain sewing or embroidery, and she spoke at once of a worthy woman in the block who wanted to get work, and directed me to her rooms. She is on the third floor, in wretched little quarters, but she has pretty things about her. She met me kindly, and when I made known my business, seemed glad to get work. I’m thankful that I went, for, if you will believe me, Horace, she had been making buttonholes for Darkson at a quarter of a cent apiece, supporting herself and child upon that.” “Such things are painful to hear of,” said Mr. Wylie, shaking his head again. “I trust you will pay her better.” “Of course. And, Horace, she has been making cotton blouses and overalls for workmen for eighty-five cents a dozen. Think of it.” “I suppose you learned her name and history?” he interrogated. “Yes—no—” hesitated Mrs. Wylie. “I learned her name was, or at least she told me to call her Mrs. Lucien, and the child’s name is Dolores. Odd, isn’t it? She nicknames her Dolly. Such a sweet little creature, too. I wonder if that is Mrs. Lucien’s real name?” she continued musingly as she toyed with a tassel of the upholstering. Mr. Wylie sank into the depths of his chair and studied the opposite wall intently for several moments. “I wish,” he said, “I could think of whom it is she reminds me. I believe if I could see her gowned in white silk and diamonds I should remember.” “What an idea,” laughed his wife. “I should like to see her so dressed, I confess. She should have more color in that pale face and less sadness in those dark eyes, then she would shine in such a brilliant setting. Yes, I am sure she has a history.” “Which you did not learn?” “Which I did not learn.” Again Mr. Wylie sat wrapped in thought, stroking his massive chin softly. “Do you remember, Nell, all who composed our party two years ago in the Adirondacks? Or was it _three_ years?” “More nearly four, I think. Why, there was Judge Matthews and wife; the Misses Eldridge—just think, Fannie is married; Mrs. Harmon and her brother; Tiny Lewis, Dr. Bessemer, and Cousin Harry and Lottie,—and—no—let me see! That was all that there were at Paul Smith’s, I believe, except the time that we went to Au Sable Chasm we met Major—oh—what was his name, that Major Somebody and his wife, that Cousin Harry was so taken with at the fancy ball? Don’t you remember her, Horace? They went to Childwold with us, too.” Mr. Wylie started. “Ah, I remember! He went West. He did have a lovely wife. I wonder if she is the one I am reminded of.”