“But she will not need the furniture, for she can come and room with me, and as for clothes, I would have tried to save them if she had prized them; but she said she would always hate the sight of that hat and dress,” Sadie said to the girls at the factory, among whom she took up a small collection to defray the expenses of the funeral. The girls contributed willingly, for Fair was a favorite with the majority of them, and had no enemies except those who envied her for her lovely face. Even Belva Platt, rather abashed by the tragedy that had followed on the heels of her wicked plot, offered Sadie a dollar; but the gift was indignantly refused, and Sadie remarked bitterly: “You helped to dig her grave, Miss Platt, so we will excuse you from any further contribution.” “Don’t be a fool, Sadie Allen!” was the sharp and rude retort, and the embroiderer tossed her head and returned to her work, although a slight chill ran over her, for she knew that Sadie’s words were true. In a metaphorical way, she had, indeed, helped to dig a grave for the poor woman, who might have lived many years but for last night’s work. Belva had not counted on such an end as this when she had planned her clever revenge on Fair Fielding. She had expected that Fair would live with the husband who had deceived her, and that her mother’s pride and ambition would be brought low. Also that Waverley Osborne would be cured of his passion for Fair and return to her side. But, though her plot had worked well, the ending did not please her. Mrs. Fielding’s pride had been brought low, it was true--low as the grave. But Fair had refused to live with her ignoble husband, and Waverley Osborne, far from returning to his old allegiance, had tacitly espoused Fair’s side, for, having heard from the sewing girls of her shameful plot, he had passed Belva that morning without speaking, and his contempt had rankled bitterly in her heart all day. CHAPTER XI. AN UNWELCOME TELEGRAM. It was all over. Fair’s tortured mother had found rest in the grave, and the unhappy daughter had gone home with Sadie Allen to live, scorning the offer that had come to her in a letter from George Lorraine to forgive and forget, and let him take her to a home, where he would work for her most faithfully. The beautiful red lips curled in bitter scorn. “Sadie, look at me, and think of it,” she said disdainfully: “The wife of an Italian organ grinder, following him, with his monkey, perhaps, around the streets, singing for a few pennies!”