Too soon for one of them their brief walk was ended, and Susan sat in the neat, plainly-furnished parlor waiting the return of Mr. Falconer, who had gone to seek his sister.  When at length the door opened, Susan sat forgetful, her gaze intent on the rare face that appeared by Mr. Falconer’s side.  It was not that the face was beautiful, though perhaps it was, or had been.  It was picturesque, made so in great measure by a stricken look it had, and a strange still whiteness.  It was one of those haunting faces that will not let themselves be forgotten—­a face that solemnized, because it indexed the mortal agony of a human soul.

“Miss Summerhaze, this is my sister, Mrs. Patterson.” said Mr. Falconer,

With a sweet cordiality of manner the lady held out her hand:  “My brother has often told me about you:  I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”

Susan was greatly interested.  “And I am very glad too,” she said, a tremor in her voice.  She wanted to run away and cry off the great flood of sympathy that was choking her.  “Dear lady, may I kiss you?” she wanted to say.  “Poor dear! she needs brooding.”  This Susan thought, and she wished she dared put out her arms and draw the sad face to her bosom, the sad heart against her own.

They talked over their plans, and then Mrs. Patterson and the little girl went home with Susan.

During Mrs. Patterson’s stay with the Summerhazes, Mr. Falconer made frequent calls, though his movements were marked by great caution, lest they might betray the pursued wife to her husband.  These calls were of a general character, designed for the household, and not exclusively for Mrs. Patterson.  And they were continued after the lady had returned to No. 649.  But they were to Susan tortures.  They were but opportunities for noting the interest between Mr. Falconer and Gertrude.  This was evident not alone to Susan, or she might have had some chance of charging it to the invention of her jealousy.  Tom and Mrs. Summerhaze had both remarked it.

“He’s well to do, Tom says, and stands respectable with the business-men,” the mother commented to Susan; “and Gertrude ’pears fond of him, and he does of her; so I can’t see any good reason why they shouldn’t marry if they want one another.  Anyhow, it’s better for girls to marry and settle down and learn to housekeep—­”

“Yes, yes,” cried Susan’s heart with pathetic impatience, “it’s better, but—­”

“Instead of going to parties in thin shoes and cobweb frocks:  I wonder they don’t all take the dipthery.  And then they set up till morning.  I couldn’t ever stand that:  I’d be laid up with sick headache every time.  Besides, they eat them unhealthy oysters and Charlotte rooshes, and such like:  no wonder so many people get the dyspepsy.  Yes, I think Gertrude had better take Mr. Falconer if he wants her to.  Ain’t that your mind about it, Susan?”

“She had better accept him if—­if—­they love each other.”  Then Susan grew faint and soul-sick, and something in her heart seemed to die, as though she had spoken the fatal words that made them each other’s for ever—­that cut her loose from her sweet romance and sent her drifting into the gloom.