bound to her by natural affection, who had fallen into dire misfortune and wretchedness.  Little by little the story grew upon her understanding; the words in which it had been disclosed came back to her, and with a new significance, a pathos hitherto unfelt.  She remembered that Olga’s mother was not much more than forty years old; that this experience began more than five years ago; that her life had been loveless; that she was imaginative and of emotional temper.  To dwell upon these facts was not only to see one person in a new light, but to gain a wider perception of life at large.  Irene had a sense of enfranchisement from the immature, the conventional.

She would have liked to be alone, to sit quietly and think.  She wanted to review once more, and with fuller self-consciousness, the circumstances which were shaping her future.  But there was no leisure for such meditation; the details of life pressed upon her, urged her onward, as with an impatient hand.  This sense of constraint became an irritation—­due in part to the slight headache, coming and going, which reminded her of her bad night.  Among the things she meant to do this morning was the writing of several letters to so-called friends, who had addressed her in the wonted verbiage on the subject of her engagement.  Five minutes proved the task impossible.  She tore up a futile attempt at civility, and rose from the desk with all her nerves quivering.

“How well I understand,” she said to herself, “why men swear!”

At eleven o’clock, unable to endure the house, she dressed for going out, and drove to Mrs. Hannaford’s.

Olga was not at home.  Before going into her aunt’s room, Irene spoke with the nurse, who had no very comforting report to make; Mrs. Hannaford could not sleep, had not closed her eyes for some four-and-twenty hours; Dr. Derwent had looked in this morning, and was to return later with another medical man.  The patient longed for her niece’s visit; it might do good.

She stayed about an hour, and it was the most painful hour her life had yet known.  The first sight of Mrs. Hannaford’s face told her how serious this illness was becoming; eyes unnaturally wide, lips which had gone so thin, head constantly moving from side to side as it lay back on the cushion of the sofa, were indications of suffering which made Irene’s heart ache.  In a faint, unsteady, lamenting voice, the poor woman talked ceaselessly; now of the wrong that was being done her, now of her miseries in married life, now again of her present pain.  Once or twice Irene fancied her delirious, for she seemed to speak without consciousness of a hearer.  To the inquiry whether it was in her niece’s power to be of any service, she answered at first with sorrowful negatives, but said presently that she would like to see Piers Otway; could Irene write to him, and ask him to come?

“He shall come,” was the reply.

On going down, Irene met her cousin, just returned.  To her she spoke of Mrs. Hannaford’s wish.