“Where is Daisy?” asked Marcella as Minta was going away with the tea; “she must have come back from school.”

“Here I am,” said Daisy, with a grin, peeping in through the door of the back kitchen.  “Mother, baby’s woke up.”

“Come here, you monkey,” said Marcella; “come and go to sleep with me.  Have you had your tea?”

“Yes, lots,” said Daisy, climbing up into Marcella’s lap.  “Are you going to be asleep a long time?”

“No—­only a nap.  Oh!  Daisy, I’m so tired.  Come and cuddlie a bit!  If you don’t go to sleep you know you can slip away—­I shan’t wake.”

The child, a slight, red-haired thing, with something of the ethereal charm that her dead brother had possessed, settled herself on Marcella’s knees, slipped her left thumb into her mouth, and flung her other arm round Marcella’s neck.  They had often gone to sleep so.  Mrs. Hurd came back, drew down the blind further, threw a light shawl over them both, and left them.

An hour and a half later Minta came in again as she had been told.  Daisy had slipped away, but Marcella was still lying in the perfect gentleness and relaxation of sleep.

“You said I was to come and wake you,” said Minta, drawing up the blind; “but I don’t believe you’re a bit fit to be going about.  Here’s some hot water, and there’s a letter just come.”

Marcella woke with a start, Minta put the letter on her knee, and dream and reality flowed together as she saw her own name in Wharton’s handwriting.

She read the letter, then sat flushed and thinking for a while with her hands on her knees.

A little while later she opened the Hurds’ front-door.

“Minta, I am going now.  I shall be back early after supper, for I haven’t written my report.”

“There—­now you look something like!” said Minta, scanning her approvingly—­the wide hat and pretty black dress.  “Shall Daisy run out with that telegram?”

“No, thanks.  I shall pass the post.  Good-bye.”

And she stooped and kissed the little withered woman.  She wished, ardently wished, that Minta would be more truly friends with her!

After a brisk walk through the June evening she stopped—­still within the same district—­at the door of a house in a long, old-fashioned street, wherein the builder was busy on either hand, since most of the long leases had just fallen in.  But the house she entered was still untouched.  She climbed a last-century staircase, adorned with panels of stucco work—­slender Italianate reliefs of wreaths, ribbons, and medallions on a pale green ground.  The decoration was clean and cared for, the house in good order.  Eighty years ago it was the home of a famous judge, who entertained in its rooms the legal and literary celebrities of his day.  Now it was let out to professional people in lodgings or unfurnished rooms.  Edward Hallin and his sister occupied the top floor.

Miss Hallin, a pleasant-looking, plain woman of about thirty-five, came at once in answer to Marcella’s knock, and greeted her affectionately.  Edward Hallin sprang up from a table at the further end of the room.