“Then he unfolded his plan to me. I was to go to Mackinac for the summer. He gave me $200 when I left. I staid three months and was really very lonely at times without Fred, but not as lonely as he was without me, for I had many friends among the young people, while he was obliged to come to the city regularly and stay for a day or two every week as usual, to keep up appearance at home. “He sent me many pretty little gowns and waists, and showed rare good taste in their selection, and was so thoughtful in every way that it was little wonder that I leaned on him more than I realized. And, then, too, his letters were so beautiful, every one of them breathing of his devotion to me. When fall came, with it came the thought of what I was to do to support myself. I came back to Chicago and Fred met me. We had a long talk and he asked me if I thought I could manage to live on $10 a week. I felt very rich at the prospect of having an income assured me every week, and think I enjoyed it, small though it was, more than I did the days of prosperity that followed. “I boarded all winter with a friend who had moved to Chicago during my absence. The next spring he invested $200 for me and in a year it had made $5,000. He felt he was better able to provide me with a good home of my own now, and so he found a beautiful little flat, which he furnished very cozily. “He came to Chicago every week, ostensibly on business, and remained two days. Of course my living this kind of a life necessitated my giving up all my former friends; they would wonder and ask questions and rather than lie, I ostracised myself. “I had learned to love him devotedly by this time, for he was so good to me, my slightest wish was anticipated, and he loved me with such tenderness as only a strong man can bestow.” “Tell me again that he was good to you,” said the clergyman. “Why,” she said, wonderingly, her eyes meeting his for the first time since she began her narrative. “I—I only wanted to be reassured of the fact that while Fre—this man, I mean, had done you the greatest wrong that a man can do a woman, he tried to make reparation.” “Yes, he was good, until—until,” and again her face was drawn in agony and her frail form quivered, “well, until the time came when he could not come every week. Business was such that it was impossible, he said. I grew so lonely that I thought I should die. “During this period of loneliness, I met an old school mate on the street one day. She seemed very glad to see me and insisted on my going to Rector’s with her, where she had an appointment to dine with her friend. I went and it was the same old story. Her friend was a strikingly handsome fellow and I was a pretty girl then,” she said with a wan smile, “and we became enamored of each other.