Delafield set his teeth. "This is too much," he said slowly. "The vulgar little cad! No, I won't go after him, Anne; let him fume it out himself. I'll try to ask D---- over next week, just the same." But when Mr. D---- came over, full of pleasant anticipation, it was only to hear of the shocking death of the boy, whose photograph, taken from a cheap gilt locket of Pippa's, he afterward used over the popular gift-card, "Dawn on the River." "Couldn't even shoot himself like a gentleman," said Delafield roughly. "Jumping seven stories--pah!" "But the poems--the poems?" urged the publisher, "surely they----" Anne took from the table an oblong tin biscuit-box and softly lifted the cover. "Here are the poems," she said, pointing to a mass of fine, grey paper-ashes. "He sent them to you?" Mr. D----'s eyes lighted comprehensively; he glanced at the girl's white face and inscrutable dark-ringed eyes with a restrained sympathy. "He sent them to my uncle," she replied quietly. THE BACKSLIDING OF HARRIET BLAKE The Rev. Mr. Freeland looked down the long, narrow poorhouse table, and then glanced inquiringly at the matron. "What has become of Harriet Blake, Mrs. Markham?" he asked. "I thought she sat at this table--I hope she's not ill?" "Harriet's backslid," announced the Widow Sheldon laconically. She was a Baptist, of the variety sometimes known as hard-shelled, and made nothing of interrupting the discourse of any representative of a denomination unpleasing to her. "Backslid?" repeated the reverend guest, dropping his napkin. "She don't believe in----" "Harriet," interrupted the matron, somewhat crossly, and with an unconcealed frown for the Widow Sheldon, "Harriet is taking her dinner alone. She--she is not quite well, I think. I will speak to you about her later," she added as the pastor's eyes grew round at her. The widow Sheldon sniffed loudly. "A person who has ter have her vittles carried up ter the bed-chamber on account o' losing any little faith she might 'a had," she began, but old Uncle Peterson broke in with his gentle drawl: "Oh, come on, Mis' Sheldon, don't go and spile a good biled dinner with words o' bitterness," he urged. "Harriet's a good woman, as is known to all, and if she's travellin' through dark ways just now----" The pastor looked puzzled, but he saw that the subject was better left alone: previous visits to the poorhouse had led him to dread the Widow Sheldon's tongue. He nodded approvingly at Uncle Peterson. "Quite right, quite right," he said quickly. "That's the spirit for us all to have. Shall I ask the blessing, Mrs. Markham?" And the meal went on. But there was something in the air that hot Sunday noon; something that lent variety to the usual monotony of the querulous meal-times. There was less comment on the food than was usual, and the Widow Sheldon's resentful silence was more impressive than her ordinary vindictive volubility. It appeared that something had actually happened.