changed from the girl who walked with Foster past the engineers'
quarters. It would be hard to find a more striking contrast than was
presented by the two women as they sat facing each other: the one in the
flush of health and beauty, calm, sweet, self-possessed; the other still
retaining some of the shabby finery of old days, but pale and haggard,
with black rings under her eyes, and a pathetic air of humiliation.

"Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began, "you do not know me, nor the like
of me. I've got no right to speak to you, but I couldn't help it. Oh!
please believe me, I am not real downright bad. I'm Sally Johnson,
daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town. My mother died when I
was little, and I _never_ had a show; and folks think because I live
with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that I
must be in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a woman speak a
kind word to me, and I've had so much trouble that I'm just drove wild,
and like to kill myself; and then I was at the station when you came in,
and I saw your sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it came in
my heart that I'd speak to you if I died for it." She leaned eagerly
forward, her hands nervously closing on the back of a chair. "I suppose
your husband never told you of me; like enough he never knew me; but
I'll never forget him as long as I live. When he was here before, there
was a young man "--here a faint color came in the wan cheeks--"who was
fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and my father was down on
him, and the men that father was in with wanted to kill him; and Mr.
Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've waited and waited for
him to come back--and perhaps I'll never see him again. But oh! dear
lady, I'll never forget what your husband did. He's a good man, and he
deserves the love of a dear good woman like you, and if I dared, I'd
pray for you both, night and day."