husband, and the efforts of her friends and family who had rescued the last of her property from him.  She was glad she remembered it; she dwelt upon it, upon his cruelty, his coarseness and vulgarity, until she saw, as she honestly believed, the hidden springs of his affection for their child.  It was his child in nature, however it might have favored her in looks; it was his own brutal self he was worshiping in his brutal progeny.  How else could it have ignored her—­its own mother?  She never doubted the truth of what he had told her—­she had seen it in his own triumphant eyes.  And yet she would have made a kind mother; she remembered with a smile and a slight rising of color the affection of Barker’s baby for her; she remembered with a deepening of that color the thrill of satisfaction she had felt in her husband’s fulmination against Mrs. Barker, and, more than all, she felt in his blind and foolish hatred of Barker himself a delicious condonation of the strange feeling that had sprung up in her heart for Barker’s simple, straightforward nature.  How could he understand, how could they understand (by the plural she meant Mrs. Barker and Horncastle), a character so innately noble.  In her strange attraction towards him she had felt a charming sense of what she believed was a superior and even matronly protection; in the utter isolation of her life now—­and with her husband’s foolish abuse of him ringing in her ears—­it seemed a sacred duty.  She had lost a son.  Providence had sent her an ideal friend to replace him.  And this was quite consistent, too, with a faint smile that began to play about her mouth as she recalled some instances of Barker’s delightful and irresistible youthfulness.

There was a clatter of hoofs and the sound of many voices from the street.  Mrs. Horncastle knew it was the down coach changing horses; it would be off again in a few moments, and, no doubt, bearing her husband away with it.  A new feeling of relief came over her as she at last heard the warning “All aboard!” and the great vehicle clattered and rolled into the darkness, trailing its burning lights across her walls and ceiling.  But now she heard steps on the staircase, a pause before her room, a whisper of voices, the opening of the door, the rustle of a skirt, and a little feminine cry of protest as a man apparently tried to follow the figure into the room.  “No, no!  I tell you no!” remonstrated the woman’s voice in a hurried whisper.  “It won’t do.  Everybody knows me here.  You must not come in now.  You must wait to be announced by the servant.  Hush!  Go!”

There was a slight struggle, the sound of a kiss, and the woman succeeded in finally shutting the door.  Then she walked slowly, but with a certain familiarity towards the mantel, struck a match and lit the candle.  The light shone upon the bright eyes and slightly flushed face of Mrs. Barker.  But the motionless woman in the chair had recognized her voice and the voice of her companion at once.  And then their eyes met.