At eight o’clock the door-bell rang.  Mr. Reynolds had gone to lodge, he being an Elk and several other things, and much given to regalia in boxes, and having his picture in the newspapers in different outlandish costumes.  Mr. Pitman used to say that man, being denied his natural love for barbaric adornment in his every-day clothing, took to the different fraternities as an excuse for decking himself out.  But this has nothing to do with the door-bell.

It was old Isaac.  He had a basket in his hand, and he stepped into the hall and placed it on the floor.

“Evening, Miss Bess,” he said.  “Can you see a bit of company to-night?”

“I can always see you,” I replied.  But he had not meant himself.  He stepped to the door, and opening it, beckoned to some one across the street.  It was Lida!

She came in, her color a little heightened, and old Isaac stood back, beaming at us both; I believe it was one of the crowning moments of the old man’s life—­thus to see his Miss Bess and Alma’s child together.

“Is—­is he here yet?” she asked me nervously.

“I did not know he was coming.”  There was no need to ask which “he.”  There was only one for Lida.

“He telephoned me, and asked me to come here.  Oh, Mrs. Pitman, I’m so afraid for him!” She had quite forgotten Isaac.  I turned to the school-teacher’s room and opened the door.  “The woman who belongs here is out at a lecture,” I said.  “Come in here, Ikkie, and I’ll find the evening paper for you.

“’Ikkie’!” said Lida, and stood staring at me.  I think I went white.

“The lady heah and I is old friends,” Isaac said, with his splendid manner.  “Her mothah, Miss Lida, her mothah—­”

But even old Isaac choked up at that, and I closed the door on him.

“How queer!” Lida said, looking at me.  “So Isaac knew your mother?  Have you lived always in Allegheny, Mrs. Pitman?”

“I was born in Pittsburgh,” I evaded.  “I went away for a long time, but I always longed for the hurry and activity of the old home town.  So here I am again.”

Fortunately, like all the young, her own affairs engrossed her.  She was flushed with the prospect of meeting her lover, tremulous over what the evening might bring.  The middle-aged woman who had come back to the hurry of the old town, and who, pushed back into an eddy of the flood district, could only watch the activity and the life from behind a “Rooms to Let” sign, did not concern her much.  Nor should she have.

Mr. Howell came soon after.  He asked for her, and going back to the dining-room, kissed her quietly.  He had an air of resolve, a sort of grim determination, that was a relief from the half-frantic look he had worn before.  He asked to have Mr. Holcombe brought down, and so behold us all, four of us, sitting around the table—­Mr. Holcombe with his note-book, I with my mending, and the boy with one of Lida’s hands frankly under his on the red table-cloth.