Slowly retiring, her head bent forward and her body stooping a little like one pressed down by a burden, Mrs. Birtwell left the house of her oldest and dearest friend with an aching sense of rejection at her heart.  In the darkest and saddest hour of her life that friend had turned from the friend who had been to her more than a sister, refusing the sympathy and tears she had come to offer.  There was a bitter cup at the lips of both; which was the bitterest it would be hard to tell.

“Not now,” Mrs. Voss had said, speaking to her husband; “I cannot meet her now.”

“Perhaps you had better see her,” returned the latter.

“No, no, no!” Mrs. Voss put up her hands and shivered as she spoke.  “I cannot, I cannot!  Oh, my boy! my son! my poor Archie!  Where are you?  Why do you not come home?  Hark!”

The bell had rung loudly.  They listened, and heard men’s voices in the hall below.  With face flushing and paling in quick alternations, Mrs. Voss started up in bed and leaned forward, hearkening eagerly.  Mr. Voss opened the chamber door and went out.  Two policemen had come to report that so far all efforts to find a trace of the young man had been utterly fruitless.  Mrs. Voss heard in silence.  Slowly the dark lashes fell upon her cheeks, that were white as marble.  Her lips were rigid and closely shut, her hands clenched tightly.  So she struggled with the fear and agony that were assaulting her life.

CHAPTER V.

A handsome man of forty-five stood lingering by the bedside of his wife, whose large tender eyes looked up at him almost wistfully.  A baby’s head, dark with beautiful hair that curled in scores of silken ringlets, lay close against her bosom.  The chamber was not large nor richly furnished, though everything was in good taste and comfortable.  A few articles were out of harmony with the rest and hinted at better days.  One of these was a large secretary of curious workmanship, inlaid with costly woods and pearl and rich with carvings.  Another was a small mantel clock of exquisite beauty.  Two or three small but rare pictures hung on the walls.

Looking closely into the man’s strong intellectual face, you would have seen something that marred the harmony of its fine features and dimmed its clear expression—­something to stir a doubt or awaken a feeling of concern.  The eyes, that were deep and intense, had a shadow in them, and the curves of the mouth had suffering and passion and evidences of stern mental conflict in every line.  This was no common man, no social drone, but one who in his contact with men was used to making himself felt.

“Come home early, Ralph, won’t you?” said his wife.

The man bent down and kissed her, and then pressed his lips to the baby’s head.

“Yes, dear; I don’t mean to stay late.  If it wasn’t for the expectation of meeting General Logan and one or two others that I particularly wish to see, I wouldn’t go at all.  I have to make good, you know, all the opportunities that come in my way.”