"In my youth, Mrs. Roche, I was as fair as you--I was unhappily married. I looked lightly on the bonds that meant so much until they fettered me--held me down, as I then imagined. Between me and my husband the sentiment of _camaraderie_ never existed. When I was not coquetting with him I was quarrelling. I tell you this because I shall never see you again. You do not know me--or care. I may be dead to-morrow--you would never hear. We are only just passing in life, and have paused to speak. The man I married was by necessity a preoccupied breadwinner, and during his daily absences in hot pursuit of the staff of life I met--well, we will say this man," taking up the photograph of Carol Quinton. Eleanor snatches it from her. "Ah! yes, just what I should have done then. I was hot-headed, and reckless, I had a good life in my hands and I ruined, spoiled, destroyed it! The cruel thongs of public opinion lashed my quivering flesh, the galling retribution broke my spirit, I cried to God, but He hid his face, I was an outcast, lost, I could only lie and moan for death which never came." The stranger covers her face with her hands, and shudders visibly. The wedding-ring to which she has no right is still on her wasted fingers, hot tears, forced from her eyes through recollection, pour down her drawn cheeks, making little rivulets through some coarse powder of the cheaper kind. Eleanor's ever-ready pity rises up to crush the anger previously felt, for she sees now the effort that this brief confession has cost her fellow traveller. She knows, too, the reason for which these words were spoken, and horror stops the beating of her heart, it checks her throbbing pulses. Mrs. Roche leans forward, and takes the stranger's hands. "Thank you," she murmurs simply. The woman clasps the little fingers gratefully. "You understand?" she asks. Eleanor whispers, "Yes." "Do you know what I saw in your eyes?" "No." "Three long words that kept repeating themselves. All the same words, and the worst, the most heartbreaking. 'To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!' They will drive a soul to perdition quicker than any in the English language. I am going to have them engraved on my tombstone, because I can only conquer them in death." "You are right. I was looking on, living in fancy the worthless days and hours." "Crush that tendency, Mrs. Roche. Think of me when your life seems worthless, and remember all that I have lost. Your face is so sweet, so pure, so beautiful, it was made for the good love that crowns spotless womanhood. But this is my station, and I shall never know what you do with your future." "Shall I show you?" says Eleanor hastily, for she is easily swayed, and the stranger has worked upon her emotion. "Yes." "See!" and the soft, enticing eyes of Carol Quinton are torn asunder--the photograph is reduced to a handful of scraps scattered on the carriage cushion.