“I presume so;” and Mrs. Birtwell stepped out, and crossing the pavement to the door, rang the bell.  It was opened by a pleasant-looking old woman, who, on being asked if a Miss Ridley lived there, replied in the affirmative.

“You will find her in the front room up stairs, ma’am,” she added.  “Will you walk up?”

The hall into which Mrs. Birtwell passed was narrow and had a rag carpet on the floor.  But the carpet was clean and the atmosphere pure.  Ascending the stairs, Mrs. Birtwell knocked at the door, and was answered by a faint “Come in” from a woman’s voice.

The room in which she found herself a moment afterward was almost destitute of furniture.  There was no carpet nor bureau nor wash-stand, only a bare floor, a very plain bedstead and bed, a square pine table and three chairs.  There was not the smallest ornament of any kind on the mantel-shelf but in the windows were three pots of flowers.  Everything looked clean.  Some work lay upon the table, near which Ethel Ridley was sitting.  But she had, turned away from the table, and sat with one pale cheek resting on her open hand.  Her face wore a dreary, almost hopeless expression.  On seeing Mrs. Birtwell, she started up, the blood leaping in a crimson tide to her neck, cheeks and temples, and stood in mute expectation.

“Miss Ridley?” said her visitor, in a kind voice.

Ethel only bowed.  She could not speak in her sudden surprise.  But recovering herself in a few moments she offered Mrs. Birtwell a chair.

“Mrs. Sandford spoke to me about you.”

As Mrs. Birtwell said this she saw the flush die out of Ethel’s face and an expression of pain come over it.  Guessing at what this meant, she added, quickly: 

“Mrs. Sandford and I do not think alike.  You must keep your home, my child.”

Ethel gave a start and caught her breath.  A look of glad surprise broke into her face.

“Oh, ma’am,” she answered, not able to steady her voice or keep the tears out of her eyes, “if I can only do that!  I am willing to work if I can find anything to do.  But—­but—­” She broke down, hiding her face in her hands and sobbing.

Mrs. Birtwell was deeply touched.  How could she help being so in presence of the desolation and sorrow for which she felt herself and husband to be largely responsible?

“It shall all be made plain and easy for you, my dear child,” she answered, taking Ethel’s hand and kissing her with almost a mother’s tenderness.  “It is to tell you this that I have come.  You are too young and weak to bear these burdens yourself.  But stronger hands shall help you.”

It was a long time before Ethel could recover herself from the surprise and joy awakened by so unexpected a declaration.  When she comprehended the whole truth, when the full assurance came, the change wrought in her appearance was almost marvelous, and Mrs. Birtwell saw before her a maiden of singular beauty with a grace and sweetness of manner rarely found.