One evening, just before the young people left the town, and as Mrs. Sinclair sat alone in her room, the frowsy waitress announced “a lady,” and was requested to bid her enter.  A woman came with timid mien into the room, sat down, as invited, and removed her veil.  Of course the young bride had never known Sally Johnson, the whilom belle of Barker’s, but her husband would have noticed at a glance how greatly she was changed from the girl who walked with Foster past the engineers’ quarters.  It would be hard to find a more striking contrast than was presented by the two women as they sat facing each other:  the one in the flush of health and beauty, calm, sweet, self-possessed; the other still retaining some of the shabby finery of old days, but pale and haggard, with black rings under her eyes, and a pathetic air of humiliation.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” she hurriedly began, “you do not know me, nor the like of me.  I’ve got no right to speak to you, but I couldn’t help it.  Oh! please believe me, I am not real downright bad.  I’m Sally Johnson, daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town.  My mother died when I was little, and I never had a show; and folks think because I live with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that I must be in with them, and be of their sort.  I never had a woman speak a kind word to me, and I’ve had so much trouble that I’m just drove wild, and like to kill myself; and then I was at the station when you came in, and I saw your sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it came in my heart that I’d speak to you if I died for it.”  She leaned eagerly forward, her hands nervously closing on the back of a chair.  “I suppose your husband never told you of me; like enough he never knew me; but I’ll never forget him as long as I live.  When he was here before, there was a young man “—­here a faint color came in the wan cheeks—­“who was fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and my father was down on him, and the men that father was in with wanted to kill him; and Mr. Sinclair saved his life.  He’s gone away, and I’ve waited and waited for him to come back—­and perhaps I’ll never see him again.  But oh! dear lady, I’ll never forget what your husband did.  He’s a good man, and he deserves the love of a dear good woman like you, and if I dared, I’d pray for you both, night and day.”

She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, pale as before, and as if frightened by her own emotion.  Mrs. Sinclair had listened with sympathy and increasing interest.

“My poor girl,” she said, speaking tenderly (she had a lovely, soft voice) and with slightly heightened color, “I am delighted that you came to see me, and that my husband was able to help you.  Tell me, can we not do more for you?  I do not for one moment believe you can be happy with your present surroundings.  Can we not assist you to leave them?”

The girl rose, sadly shaking her head.  “I thank you for your words,” she said.  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again, but I’ll say, God bless you!”