"I understood you to say there was no hope!" interrupted Mrs.

Aylett.

"So Dr. Ritchie declares. But I cannot bear to believe it!"

She pressed her fingers upon her eyeballs as if she would exclude

some horrid vision.

"My dear sister! your nerves have been cruelly tried. To-morrow, you

will see this matter--and everything else--through a different

medium. As for the object of your amiable pity, he is, without

doubt, some low, dissipated creature, of whom the world will be well

rid."

"I am not certain of that. There are traces of something like

refinement and gentle breeding about him in all his squalor and

unconsciousness. I noticed his hands particularly. They are slender

and long, and his features in youth and health must have been

handsome. Dr. Ritchie thought the same. Who can tell that his wife

is not mourning his absence to-night, as the fondest woman under

this roof would regret her husband's disappearance? And she may

never learn when and how he died--never visit his grave!"

"I have lived in this wicked world longer than you have, my sweet

Mabel; so you must not quarrel with me if these fancy pictures do

not move me as they do your guileless heart," said Mrs. Aylett, the

sinister shadow of a mocking smile playing about her mouth. "Nor

must you be offended with me for suggesting as a pendant to your

crayon sketch of widowhood and desolation the probability that the

decease of a drunken thief or beggar cannot be a serious

bereavement, even to his nearest of kin. Women who are beaten and

trampled under foot by those who should be their comfort and

protection are generally relieved when they take to vagrancy as a

profession. It may be that this man's wife, if she were cognizant of

his condition, would not lift a finger, or take a step to prolong

his life for one hour. Such things have been."

"More shame to human nature that they have!" was the impetuous

rejoinder. "In every true woman's heart there must be tender

memories of buried loves, let their death have been natural or

violent."

"So says your gentler nature. There are women--and I believe they

are in the majority in this crooked lower sphere--in whose hearts

the monument to departed affection--when love is indeed no more--is

a hatred that can never die. But we have wandered an immense

distance from the unlucky chicken-thief or burglar overhead. Dr.

Ritchie's sudden and ostentatious attack of philanthropy will hardly

beguile him into watching over his charge--a guardian angel in

dress-coat and white silk neck-tie--until morning?"




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