As they drew near to Albany, another piercing shriek from Willie arose even above the noise of the train.  The paroxysms of pain had returned with such severity that the poor infant’s face became a livid purple, while Adah’s tears dropped upon it like rain.  Again the sympathetic women gathered around, again Dr. Richards, aroused from his uneasy sleep, muttered invectives against children in general and this one in particular, while again Irving Stanley hastened to the rescue, his the ruling mind which overmastered the others, planning what should be done, and seeing that his plans were executed.

“You cannot go on this morning.  Your little boy must have rest and medical advice,” he said to Adah, when at last the train stopped in Albany.  “I have a few moments to spare.  I will see that you are comfortable.  You are going to Snowdon, I think you said.  There is an acquaintance of mine on board who is also bound for Snowdon.  I might—­”

Irving Stanley paused here, for certain doubts arose in his mind, touching the doctor’s willingness to be troubled with strangers.

“Oh, I’d rather go on alone,” Adah exclaimed, as she guessed what he had intended saying.

“It’s quite as well, I reckon,” was Mr. Stanley’s reply, and taking Willie in his arms, he conducted Adah to the nearest hotel.

“If you please, you will not engage a very expensive room for me.  I can’t afford it,” Adah said, timidly, as she followed her conductor into the parlor of the Delavan.

She was poor, then.  Irving would hardly have guessed it from her appearance, but this frank avowal which many would not have made, only increased his respect for her, while he wished so much that she might have one of the handsome sitting-rooms, of whose locality he knew so well.

It was a cozy, pleasant little chamber into which she was finally ushered, too nice, Adah feared, half trembling for the bill when she should ask for it, and never dreaming that just one-half the price had been paid by Irving, whose kind heart prompted him to the generous act.

There were but a few moments now ere he must leave, and standing by her side, with her little hand in his, he said: 

“The meeting with you has been to me a pleasant incident, and I shall not soon forget it.  I trust we may meet again.  There is my card.  I am acquainted North, South, East and West.  Perhaps I know your husband.  You have one?” he added quickly, as he saw the hot blood stain her face and neck to a most unnatural color.

He had not the remotest suspicion that she had never been a wife; he only thought from her agitation that she possibly was a widow, and unconsciously to himself the idea was fraught with a vague feeling of gladness, for, to most men, it is pleasanter knowing they have been polite to a pretty girl, or even a pretty widow, than to a wife, whose lord might object, and Irving was not an exception.  Was she a widow, and had he unwittingly touched the half-healed wound?  He wished he knew, and he stood waiting for her answer to his question, “You have a husband?”