“Oh, he became Professor Doubleton,” said the girl, with a toss of her head, which denoted more sarcasm than words could imply. “You mean⸺” “Yes, I mean he was married three weeks after the baby died, while I was yet weeping my eyes red as I sat on that cold gray slab of stone each day.” “Did you not protest?” “Yes, I wrote, upbraiding him with all the power I had left, but sorrow for the loss of my baby had so softened me that my letter was more in the manner of an appeal than a command, and a man who is as heartless as he will quickly see a woman’s weak point and will not hesitate to grasp the opportunity of crushing her so completely that she loses all semblance of her former self.” “He did answer me; rather a long letter, too, it was, but among other things he said that his position in life was so changed and that he would be able to rise higher if he would marry some one in his present station, and a lot of such rot. He closed by saying that ‘a woman with a past has no future.’ “At the end of eight years’ service as a nurse I was a mature woman of thirty. I had learned enough of the world to be able to take care of myself. The last patient for whom I cared in the capacity of nurse was a foreigner; he was a nobleman who had contracted the yellow fever which was raging in the South at that time. “One accomplishment which I had picked up at odd times was playing the guitar. I could sing a little, and this patient, who was wealthy, seemed to improve so rapidly after he was able to listen and enjoy music that I would often sit and play and sing softly to him for hours. The music was not grand, but, as he said, ‘it was vera sweet.’ “As soon as he was able to leave the hospital he insisted that I take a vacation; purely out of gratitude he took me to New York, where he lavished many fine presents on me. “At last, and to my sorrow, the time arrived when the prince must sail for his native land, and while I did not love him I was sorry to have him go. He had never been anything to me nor I to him, except on the lines of purest Platonicy. True, we had been much together. He was kind and affectionate to me; he had held me in his arms, but beyond the admiration of pure loyal friendship he had never expressed himself. I think he detected my feelings as the time for his departure drew near, for I could tell that he was more attentive and considerate than ever before. One day he came to my room and found me crying, whereupon he took me gently in his arms and asked what caused my sorrow; as I sought to free myself that I might bathe my swollen eyes, this little picture dropped from my bosom where I had hastily thrust it. Out of chivalry he picked it up and handed it to me, glancing at it as he did so. “‘Ah,’ said he, ‘a story, eh?’ “I indignantly replied that I had never lied to him, for I had never told him anything. “‘No, no. I mean you have—you—know—perhaps—ah—a life story.’