Jane drew the puffy hand eagerly through her arm.  She would have liked to say outright how welcome the motherly presence and the honest voice were to her just then.

Mrs. Wilde dismissed the captain and Mr. Waring, and the two women sat down in the arbor, and at once were at ease and at home with each other.  Bruno came up, eyed and smelled the new-comer, and snuggled down on her skirts to go to sleep.

“He vouches for me,” she said nodding.  “You must take me at his valuation.”

“He makes no mistakes.”

“Nor do you, I suspect.  That reminds me, Miss Swendon.  I brought a friend with me, and now that I have seen you I mean to bespeak your good-will for her.  She needs just such healthy influence as yours would be.”

“Is she ill?”

“Only in mind.  One of those morbid women who must make a drama out of their lives, and prefer to make it a tragedy.  A Madame Trebizoff, an English-woman who married a Russian prince.  She is a widow now, with large means—­came to New York a few months ago, and has had much court paid to her.  But her nature makes her always a very lonely woman.”  She spoke hastily as the trailing of heavy skirts approached on the grass.  “Here she is, poor thing!  Be good to her,” she whispered before presenting her in form.  Madame Trebizoff was draped in black, with a good deal of lace about her head and an artificial yellow rose at her throat.  Jane went up to her with outstretched hand, but when the sallow face turned full on her she stopped short, looked at it a moment, and then bowed without a word.

“It is the materialized spirit!” But she did not speak, for in a moment she remembered that she had once taken the bread from the wretched woman’s mouth.  She would not do it again.

CHAPTER XIII.

Mr. Van Ness came beaming down through the lilacs to the arbor, and was received with much reverence by Mrs. Wilde.  She was a devout woman, and Pliny Van Ness’s name was in all the churches.  They all sauntered back to luncheon presently, Mrs. Wilde and Jane going before, while Mr. Van Ness and the Russian princess walked more slowly through the woods, the foreigner talking with animation and many gestures of American trees, while the reformer listened benignly, ineffable calm in his smiling eyes.

“You followed me here purposely, Charlotte?” he said gently as she dilated eloquently on our autumnal foliage.

“No.  I did not know that you were in New York.  But I meant to call upon you soon.  I have had no money from you since last August.”

“Somebody, apparently, has filled my place as your banker,” his placid eye sweeping over the costly dress and be-diamonded fingers.

“What is that to you?” with a sudden shrill passion.  “Once you would have cared, Pliny.  But that was years ago.”

“Yes.  Many years ago,” buttoning his glove carefully.  “A Russian princess, eh?” after a short pause.  “You are playing higher than ordinary, Charlotte.  You’ll find it dangerous.  I should advise you to keep to begging letters or the role of medium or literary tramp.”