"You ought to be sure of her," Mrs. Richie said; "her little
vanities--why, it is just natural for a girl to want pretty
dresses! But to think--Poor little Elizabeth!" She hid her face
in her hands; "and poor bad mother," she said, in a whisper.

"Don't pity _her_! She was not the one to pity. It was
Arthur who--" He left the sentence unfinished; his face quivered.

"Oh," she cried, "you are all wrong. She is the one to pity, I
don't care how selfish and shallow she was! As for your brother,
he just died. What was dying, compared to living? Oh, you don't
understand. Poor bad women! You might at least be sorry for them.
How can you be so hard?"

"I suppose I am hard," he said, half wonderingly, but very
meekly; "when a good woman can pity Dora--that was her name; who
am I to judge her? I'll try not to be so hard," he promised.

He had risen. Mrs. Richie tried to speak, but stopped and caught
her breath at the bang of the front door.

"It's David!" she said, in a terrified voice. Her face was very
pale, so pale that David, coming abruptly into the room, stood
still in his tracks, aghast.

"Why, Materna! What's up? Mother, something is the matter!"

"It's my fault, David," Robert Ferguson said, abashed. "I was
telling your mother a--a sad story. Mrs. Richie, I didn't realize
it would pain you. Your mother is a very kind woman, David; she's