Mrs. Hampton waited until the mail arrived, and when she had received her daily paper she walked slowly down the road.  It was a beautiful day, though rather hot, so after she had gone some distance, she was glad to sit down to rest under the shade of a big maple tree.  Hardly a ripple ruffled the surface of the river which stretched out before her.  Its calmness appealed to her.  Then she suddenly remembered the tragedy which had taken place at Benton’s wharf.  Somewhere, perhaps, in its quiet depths a girl was lying, who, but a few days before was full of abounding health and strength.  The river, however, gave no sign of its secret, but smiled beneath the morning sun.  “How like many a life that river is,” she thought.  “Outwardly everything seems full of peace and happiness, while all the time tragedy lurks beneath.  That is the way with mine, at any rate.  My friends, neighbours, and even John are unaware of the sin hidden within my soul.  They imagine that my life is one of contentment, little realising how miserable I really am.”

Unfolding the newspaper, she cast her eyes at the various headlines until they rested upon one which arrested her attention.  It was set forth in large type, and described in vivid language the supposed drowning of Henry Randall’s only daughter the night before.  The article was well written, and told about Miss Randall’s beauty, charm of manner, and her many friends, who were greatly shocked over the tragedy.  Her parents were grief-stricken, and Mrs. Randall was inconsolable.  There was no doubt at all but that the girl had committed suicide, distracted over a love affair.  The river bad been thoroughly searched, but so far the body of the missing girl had not been found.

Mrs. Hampton could not get this story out of her mind, and she thought much about it as she walked home.  As she went about her work that afternoon the girl was ever before her.  Though she had never seen her, yet she pictured her with white face, and eyes filled with despair, rowing out from the wharf, and ending her young life.  So she, too, had her troubles, poor girl!

As the afternoon was drawing to a close, and Mrs. Hampton was resting for a few minutes on the verandah, Flo Tobin came and sat down by her side.  She was a frequent visitor, and Mrs. Hampton was always glad to see her.  She was of a bright, sunny disposition, altogether different from her mother, and with none of Eben’s peculiarities.

“Wasn’t it terrible about that girl drowning herself last night?” she at once began.  “I can’t get her out of my mind.”

“It is very sad,” Mrs. Hampton replied.  “She had everything that money can buy, and yet she was not happy.”

“Money isn’t everything,” and Flo looked thoughtfully out upon the river as she spoke.  “Now, look at me.  I have a home, food, clothes, and such things, but they don’t always make a girl happy.  She needs to be understood, and that’s where parents so often fail.  I don’t blame that girl for doing what she did.  I have often felt like doing the same thing myself."’