“My brother’s married,” interrupted Nora quickly.  “He married four years ago.”

“You never told me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?  Isn’t his wife—­isn’t his wife nice?”

“She was a waitress at a scrubby little hotel in Winnipeg.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“I?  I’m going to look out for another situation.”

Miss Pringle shook her head sadly.

“Well, I must be going.  Mrs. Hubbard will be back from her drive by this time.  She’s sure to have you in for tea or something before you go.  She’s always been quite fond of you.  At any rate, I’ll see you again, of course.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

Nora was thankful to be alone once more.  She wanted to think it all out.  What a day it had been.  Starting with such high hopes to end only in utter disaster.  She felt completely exhausted by the emotions she had undergone.  Time enough to plan to-morrow.  To-night she needed rest.

Two days later, in the late afternoon, she found herself in the train for London, the second journey she had taken in ten years.  Once, three years before, Miss Wickham had been persuaded to go up and pay the James Wickhams a short visit and had taken Nora with her.

It could hardly have been described as a pleasure trip.  Miss Wickham detested visiting and had only yielded to her nephew’s importunities because she had never been in his London house to stay any time and had an avid curiosity to see how they lived.  She had of course disapproved of everything she saw about the establishment.  But, as it was no part of her purpose to let the fact be known to her relatives, she had in a large measure vented her consequent ill-humor upon her unfortunate companion.

The last few days had seemed full, indeed.  No matter how little one may really care for a place, the process of uprooting after ten years is not an easy one.  Mr. Wynne had been to see her to renew his offer of assistance and counsel in any plan she might have for the future and she had spent an hour with the good doctor and his wife.  The dreaded invitation from Mrs. Hubbard had duly arrived and had turned out to be for dinner, an extraordinary honor.  Nora had accepted it entirely on Miss Pringle’s account.  Mrs. Hubbard had been condescension itself and had even gone the length of excusing Miss Pringle from the evening’s game of bezique, in order that she might have a farewell chat with her friend.

She had mildly deprecated Miss Wickham’s carelessness in not altering her will, but had reminded Miss Marsh that she should be grateful to her late employer for having had such kindly intentions toward her, vaguely ending her remarks with the statement that as her dear husband had always said in this imperfect world one had often to consider intentions.