The widow wiped her eyes softly with a bordered handkerchief. To the innocent young girl she seemed the picture of grief. A little while was passed in conversation of a general nature. As the widow rose to go she said, "I like you. You seem to me the ideal of such a companion as I would have. The only question to be settled is whether or not you will like me. "If you will come with me as my little daughter I can assure you that you will want for nothing. I will dress you as I would my own daughter. We shall visit the world. I have already prepared to engage passage for Europe and desire to sail Saturday, four days from today. "In order that you may satisfy yourself as to whether or not you will like me I want you to call at my hotel tonight and take dinner with me. I am living at the Arena hotel, 1340 Michigan avenue. A quiet, retired little place." "I will be delighted," said the girl. "I don't think that there is any question as to whether or not I will like you. You have charmed me already. I am alone in Chicago. The only relative I have here is my brother. He will be pleased I know to hear that there is such a pleasant occupation in store for me." The widow paused in her going, as women do. The conversation prattled on. The girl spoke of her brother and, before she knew it, she was saying: "I never take any steps without consulting him. He knows so much. I would love to bring him with me to meet you tonight, if you wouldn't--" Her sentence was arrested by the cloud that passed over the widow's face. It was a look, sharp, keen, bitter, hard as a look can be. Even the girl, unwise as she was in the study of human nature and the ways of the world, felt an intuitive thrill that bordered on suspicion. She didn't finish her sentence exactly as she had meant to. Instead, she said: "In fact my brother would hardly let me go, you know, without first meeting you himself and talking with you. You can understand." Quickly as it took to say it, the woman in black recovered her self-composure. Before the girl had finished she was all asmile. "You dear child," she said, holding out her hand, "I'm so glad to hear you say that. Indeed, I couldn't think of taking you away from him without having him feel certain in his heart that it would be for your good. I'd love to have him call with you tonight. You'll both dine with me, of course. Do you remember my address?" "Why, no, I--" Again a peculiar look came over the widow's face. This time it was not hard, not sharp, not of dismay nor apprehension, but a sly, fox-like, satisfied smile that the girl afterwards remembered and understood. "I'll just write it down for you," said the widow. "I'll give you the street number, too, so that you won't forget. Pardon me, I haven't a card." The girl produced a slip of paper and a lead pencil. On the card the widow wrote: "HOTEL IROQUOIS, 3035 Michigan avenue." And then Mrs. Schwartz departed.