extending her hand, said, with a direct simplicity that
carried conviction in every tone of her voice and in
which no trace of her former emotions were visible:

"I hope you'll forgive me, Mr. Horn. I'm all
alone here in this city and I have grown so accustomed
to depending on myself that, perhaps, I failed
to understand how you felt about it. I am very
grateful to you. Good-night."

She had turned away before he could do more than
express his regret over the occurrence. He wanted
to follow her; to render her some assistance; to
comfort her in some way. It hurt him to see her go
out alone into the night. He wished he might offer
his arm, escort her home, make some atonement for
the pain he had caused her. But there was a certain
proud poise of the head and swift glance of the eye
which held him back.

While he stood undecided whether to break
through her reserve and join her, he saw Mrs. Mulligan
come out of the basement, stop a passing stage,
and, helping Margaret in, take the seat beside her.

"I am glad she does not go out alone," he said to
himself and turned away.