As Mrs. Birtwell left the house of Mr. Elliott a slender girl, thinly clad, passed from the beautiful residence of Mrs. Sandford.  She had gone in only a little while before with hope in her pale young face; now it had almost a frightened look.  Her eyes were wet, and her lips had the curve of one who grieves helplessly and in silence.  Her steps, as she moved down the street, were slow and unsteady, like the steps of one who bore a heavy burden or of one weakened by long illness.  In her ears was ringing a sentence that had struck upon them like the doom of hope.  It was this—­and it had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Sandford, spoken with a cold severity that was more assumed than real—­

“If you will do as I suggest, I will see that you have a good home; but if you will not, I can do nothing for you.”

There was no reply on the part of the young girl, and no sign of doubt or hesitation.  All the light—­it had been fading slowly as the brief conference between her and Mrs. Sandford had progressed—­died out of her face.  She shrunk a little in her chair, her head dropping forward.  For the space of half a minute she sat with eyes cast down.  Both were silent, Mrs. Sandford waiting to see the effect of what she had said, and hoping it would work a change in the girl’s purpose.  But she was disappointed.  After sitting in a stunned kind of way for a short time, she rose, and without trusting herself to speak bowed slightly and left the room.  Mrs. Sandford did not call after the girl, but suffered her to go down stairs and leave the house without an effort to detain her.

“She must gang her ain gait,” said the lady, fretfully and with a measure of hardness in her voice.

On reaching the street, Ethel Ridley—­the reader has guessed her name—­walked away with slow, unsteady steps.  She felt helpless and friendless.  Mrs. Sandford had offered to find her a home if she would abandon her father and little brother.  The latter, as Mrs. Sandford urged, could be sent to his mother’s relatives, where he would be much better off than now.

Not for a single instant did Ethel debate the proposition.  Heart and soul turned from it.  She might die in her effort to keep a home for her wretched father, but not till then had she any thought of giving up.

On leaving the house of Mr. Elliott, Mrs. Birtwell. went home, and after remaining there for a short time ordered her carriage and drove to a part of the town lying at considerable distance from that in which she lived.  Before starting she had given her driver the name of the street and number of the house at which she was going to make a call.  The neighborhood was thickly settled, and the houses small and poor.  The one before which the carriage drew up did not look quite so forlorn as its neighbors; and on glancing up at the second-story windows, Mrs. Birtwell saw two or three flower-pots, in one of which a bright rose was blooming.

“This is the place you gave me, ma’am,” said the driver as he held open the door.  “Are you sure it is right?”