heavy dark silk, which has originally been handsome, but
is now somewhat worn and shabby. A woollen shawl over her
shoulders.

She sits for a time erect and immovable at her crochet. Then the
bells of a passing sledge are heard.


MRS. BORKMAN.
[Listens; her eyes sparkle with gladness and she involuntarily
whispers]. Erhart! At last!

[She rises and draws the curtain a little aside to look out.
Appears disappointed, and sits down to her work again, on
the sofa. Presently THE MAID enters from the hall with a
visiting card on a small tray.

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Quickly.] Has Mr. Erhart come after all?

THE MAID.
No, ma'am. But there's a lady----

MRS. BORKMAN.
[Laying aside her crochet.] Oh, Mrs. Wilton, I suppose----

THE MAID.
[Approaching.] No, it's a strange lady----

MRS. BORKMAN.