I admired her calm and steadfast trust in the truth, that bore her along in her daily doing right toward all with whom she mingled, but I well knew she would be righteously indignant toward Mr. Benton, and also that the whole truth, with the letter and the story of “the lamb,” would soon be forthcoming.  I could hardly wait for the recital which I expected to hear in the afternoon, and entered Mrs. Goodwin’s door at three o’clock precisely.

She was glad to see me, and said cheerily: 

“Take off your things, Emily, and I’ll show you right in, for Miss Harris is waiting anxiously.”

I thought she looked beautiful the night we found her, but to-day she was a marvellous picture, sitting among the white pillows.  Her cheeks were touched here and there with pink, as if rose leaves had left their tender stain—­her eyes beautifully bright, and such depths of blue, with arched brows above them, and long brown lashes for a shield.  Her hair rippled over her shoulders in brown curls, and around her was thrown the light India shawl she had about her on that sad night.  She smiled with pleasure as I entered, and beckoned me to her bedside, while Mrs. Goodwin said: 

“Take the old splint rocker, Emily.  I am going to let you stay two long hours.”

How gratefully the poor lamb’s eyes turned upon the good woman!

“This young lady’s name is Harris.”

“Yes,” said Miss Harris “Mary Abigail Harris, after my mother.”

I kissed her forehead, and then took the seat proffered, sitting so near her that I could lean on the side of the bed as I listened to the story.

Mrs. Goodwin left us alone, and the recital began: 

“I remembered your eyes, Miss Minot, and I wanted to tell you all about it—­how I came to be here, needing the help you so kindly gave.  Oh, I shudder,” she said, “as I think how it might have been that never again my mother could have seen me!”

Her face grew pale, but no tears came, and I could see a resolute look that gave signs of strong will, and for this I felt inwardly thankful.

“I came from my home,” said she, “in search of my husband.  Three years ago I was married in my father’s house to Wilmur Bentley, who came South from his Northern home on an artist’s tour, selling many pictures and painting more.  He lived in our vicinity for some months with a friend, a wealthy planter by the name of Sumner.”  I started involuntarily.  “There were two of these gentlemen—­brothers—­and they owned large plantations with many colored people.  Mr. Bentley had every appearance of a gentleman of honor, and none of us ever doubted his worth.  My father gave him a pleasant welcome and a home, and for three brief months we were happy.  Suddenly a cloud fell upon him; he appeared troubled, and said ’Mary, I must go North—­I have left some tangled business snarls there, which I must see to.’  He left, promising an early return.  The letters I received from him were frequent, and