studied her shrewdly. She noted that the black gown was well-worn, and
had, indeed, been patched in several places. The shoes which tapped
impatiently on the floor were undeniably shabby, though they had been
carefully blacked. Against the unrelieved sombreness of her gown.
Miss Evelina's hands were singularly frail and transparent. Every line
of her body was eloquent of weakness and well-nigh insupportable grief.

"Well," said Miss Hitty, again, though she felt that the words were
flat; "I'm glad you've come back. It seems like old times for us to be
settin' here, talkin', and--" here she laughed shrilly--"we've both
been spared marriage."

A small, slender hand clutched convulsively at the arm of the haircloth
chair, but Miss Evelina did not speak.

"I see," went on Miss Hitty, not unkindly, "that you're still in
mourning for your mother. You mustn't take it so hard. Sometimes
folks get to feeling so sorry about something that they can't never get
over it, and they keep on going round and round all the time like a
squirrel in a wheel, and keep on getting weaker till it gets to be a
kind of disease there ain't no cure for. Leastwise, that's what Doctor
Dexter says."

"Doctor Dexter!" With a cry, Miss Evelina sprang to her feet, her
hands tightly pressed to her heart.

"The same," nodded Miss Hitty, overjoyed to discover that at last her
hostess was interested. "Doctor Anthony Dexter, our old schoolmate, as
had just graduated when you lived here before. He went away for a year
and then he came back, bringing a pretty young wife. She's dead, but