Stamping up the stairs, and thumping her umbrella upon every step as she went, hot vengeance breathing from between her parted lips, and her eyes flashing with the delight of prospective fury, she entered her room.  The light of the afternoon had but just begun to wane, and she had not made three steps into the apartment, before her eyes fell upon a pair of faded, light blue shoes, which stood side by side upon a table.  She stopped suddenly, and stood, pale and rigid.  Her grasp upon her umbrella loosened, and, unnoticed, it fell upon the floor.  Then, her eyes still fixed upon the shoes, she moved slowly sidewise towards the closet.  She tried the door, and found it still locked; then she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key, looked at it, and dropped it.  With faltering steps she drew near the table, and stood supporting herself by the back of a chair.  Any one else would have seen upon that table merely a pair of baby’s shoes; but she saw more.  She saw the tops of the little socks which she had folded away for the last time so many years before; she saw the first short dress her child had ever worn; it was tied up with pink ribbons at the shoulders, from which hung two white, plump, little arms.  There was a little neck, around which was a double string of coral fastened by a small gold clasp.  Above this was a face, a baby face, with soft, pale eyes, and its head covered with curls of the lightest yellow, not arranged in artistic negligence, but smooth, even, and regular, as she so often had turned, twisted, and set them.  It was indeed her baby girl who had come to her as clear and vivid in every feature, limb, and garment, as were the real shoes upon the table.  For many minutes she stood, her eyes fixed upon the little apparition, then, slowly, she sank upon her knees by the chair, her sun-bonnet, which she had not removed, was bowed, so the pale eyes of the little one could not see her face, and from her own eyes came the first tears that that old woman had shed since her baby’s clothes had been put away in the box.

* * * * *

Lawrence’s letter to Miss March was a definitely expressed document, intended to cover all the ground necessary, and no more; but it could not be said that it was entirely satisfactory to himself.  His case, to say the least of it, was a difficult one to defend.  He was aware that his course might be looked upon by others as dishonorable, although he assured himself that he had acted justly.  It might have been better to wait for a positive declaration from Miss March, that she had not truly accepted him, before engaging himself to another lady.  But then, he said to himself, true love never waits for anything.  At all events, he could write no better letter than the one he had produced, and he hoped he should have an opportunity to show it to Annie before he sent it.