Kate came over and looked at one piece of music after another irresolutely.

“I have not touched the piano for weeks.”

She sat down and her fingers wandered forcedly through a few chords.  Isabel stepped quickly to her side and laid restraining hands softly upon hers:  “No; not to-day.”

Kate rose with averted face:  “No; not any music to-day!”

The friends returned to their seat, on which Kate left her work.  She took it up and for a few moments Isabel watched her in silence.

“When did you see Rowan?”

“You know he lives in the country,” replied Isabel, with an air of defensive gayety.

“And does he never come to town?”

“How should I know?”

Kate took this seriously and her head sank lower over her work:  “Ah,” she thought to herself, “she will not confide in me any longer.  She keeps her secrets from me—­me who shared them all my life.”

“What is it you are making?”

Isabel stretched out her hand, but Kate with a cry threw her breast downward upon her work.  With laughter they struggled over it; Kate released it and Isabel rising held it up before her.  Then she allowed it to drop to the floor.

“Isabel!” exclaimed Kate, her face grown cold and hard.  She stooped with dignity and picked up the garment.

“Oh, forgive me,” implored Isabel, throwing her arms around her neck.  “I did not know what I was doing!” and she buried her face on the young wife’s shoulder.  “I was thinking of myself:  I cannot tell you why!”

Kate released herself gently.  Her face remained grave.  She had felt the first wound of motherhood:  it could not be healed at once.  The friends could not look at each other.  Isabel began to draw on her gloves and Kate did not seek to keep her longer.

“I must go.  Dear friend, have you forgiven me?  I cannot tell you what was in my heart.  Some day you will understand.  Try to forgive till you do understand.”

Kate’s mouth trembled:  “Isabel, why are you so changed toward me?”

“Ah, I have not changed toward you!  I shall never change toward you!”

“Are you too happy to care for me any longer?”

“Ah, Kate, I am not too happy for anything.  Some day you will understand.”

She leaned far out and waved her hand as she drove away, and then she threw herself back into the carriage.  “Dear injured friend!  Brave loyal woman’” she cried, “the men we loved have ruined both our lives; and we who never had a secret from each other meet and part as hypocrites to shield them.  Drive home,” she said to the driver.  “If any one motions to stop, pay no attention.  Drive fast.”

Mrs. Osborn watched the carriage out of sight and then walked slowly back to her work.  She folded the soft white fabric over the cushions and then laid her cheek against it and gave it its first christening—­the christening of tears.