“And so you have been sitting here watching for the unknown, when I supposed you were studying costumes, or mentally rhapsodizing upon the architectural beauties of the stone walls opposite. I am afraid, Nellie, you are getting lonely. The Misses Eldridge have not called lately, or that dear, delightful Mrs. Lee, about whom you were raving a month ago, has gone away. I must look into this. When my wife is forced to seek amusement and objects of interest in the faces of the passers-by upon the streets—” “Oh, how fortunate! There she comes now! You shall see for yourself,” interrupted Mrs. Wylie, eagerly leaning forward and scanning the street before her. “She will be opposite here before long.” Mr. Wylie arose languidly, and slightly shaking his body to adjust his clothing, moved gracefully across the room to his wife’s side, where, glancing over her shoulder, he sought the described woman. Among the throng of hurrying pedestrians crossing the street a few rods away they saw a lady, dressed in plain and unassuming black, slowly accommodating her footsteps to the pace of the little toddler at her side, who trudged along with the half-tottering, uncertain gait of infants of her age. So slowly was she obliged to walk that the spectators at the window had ample opportunity for close inspection. The woman was of medium height, slender and pliant, with a fine poise of the head and grace of sloping shoulders. Her face was pale, too pale for perfect health, Elinor Wylie thought, and her features were clear-cut and expressive. But the beauty of her face was in her eyes. As she came opposite the hotel she seemed accidentally to glance upward. Involuntarily Mr. and Mrs. Wylie drew back from the window, then looked at each other and laughed. “Is she not lovely?” questioned Mrs. Wylie triumphantly. “She has rather fine features,” returned the gentleman, absently twirling the curtain about his fingers. “I fancy I have seen her before somewhere, but I cannot now remember where.” He wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. “I do not associate that face in my memory, however, with black robes or the character of sewing woman in Forest City.” “I knew you would be interested if you could but see her; and now how can I learn more of her? I might seek her in a business way to get her to sew for me or something of that kind,” said the little woman, looking inquiringly at her husband. He laughed, a soft-modulated laugh, that well harmonized with his languid movements and studied grace. “I am afraid you are premature in arriving at conclusions. You are not yet sure that she is a sewing woman. I think I begin to understand your mission on earth. You should be at the head of an organized benevolent society. You are such an adept at fishing out cases upon which to waste your sympathy.” “Please do not laugh, Horace. It is very seldom I become interested in anything of the kind and you should encourage me,” she said.