The carriage had skirted the hill, passing to the rear of the new building.

“Turn to the right, William,” ordered Mrs. Carteret, addressing the coachman, “and come back past the other side of the hospital.”

A turn to the right into another road soon brought them to the front of the building, which stood slightly back from the street, with no intervening fence or inclosure.  A sorrel pony in a light buggy was fastened to a hitching-post near the entrance.  As they drove past, a lady came out of the front door and descended the steps, holding by the hand a very pretty child about six years old.

“Who is that woman, Olivia?” asked Mrs. Ochiltree abruptly, with signs of agitation.

The lady coming down the steps darted at the approaching carriage a look which lingered involuntarily.

Mrs. Carteret, perceiving this glance, turned away coldly.

With a sudden hardening of her own features the other woman lifted the little boy into the buggy and drove sharply away in the direction opposite to that taken by Mrs. Carteret’s carriage.

“Who is that woman, Olivia?” repeated Mrs. Ochiltree, with marked emotion.

“I have not the honor of her acquaintance,” returned Mrs. Carteret sharply.  “Drive faster, William.”

“I want to know who that woman is,” persisted Mrs. Ochiltree querulously.  “William,” she cried shrilly, poking the coachman in the back with the end of her cane, “who is that woman?”

“Dat’s Mis’ Miller, ma’am,” returned the coachman, touching his hat; “Doctuh Miller’s wife.”

“What was her mother’s name?”

“Her mother’s name wuz Julia Brown.  She’s be’n dead dese twenty years er mo’.  Why, you knowed Julia, Mis’ Polly!—­she used ter b’long ter yo’ own father befo’ de wah; an’ after de wah she kep’ house fer”—­

“Look to your horses, William!” exclaimed Mrs. Carteret sharply.

“It’s that hussy’s child,” said Mrs. Ochiltree, turning to her niece with great excitement.  “When your father died, I turned the mother and the child out into the street.  The mother died and went to—­the place provided for such as she.  If I hadn’t been just in time, Olivia, they would have turned you out.  I saved the property for you and your son!  You can thank me for it all!”

“Hush, Aunt Polly, for goodness’ sake!  William will hear you.  Tell me about it when you get home.”

Mrs. Ochiltree was silent, except for a few incoherent mumblings.  What she might say, what distressing family secret she might repeat in William’s hearing, should she take another talkative turn, was beyond conjecture.

Olivia looked anxiously around for something to distract her aunt’s attention, and caught sight of a colored man, dressed in sober gray, who was coming toward the carriage.

“There’s Mr. Delamere’s Sandy!” exclaimed Mrs. Carteret, touching her aunt on the arm.  “I wonder how his master is?  Sandy, oh, Sandy!”