“‘She is not ill, I hope?’ said I.

“‘No, ma’am; not ill exactly, but—­’ and she hesitated and looked embarrassed.

“‘She will see me,’ I spoke confidently.  ’Take her my name, and I will wait here in the parlor.’

“In a few minutes the girl returned and asked me to walk up stairs.  I followed her to Mrs. Dewey’s room.  She tapped lightly on the door, which was opened.  I passed in, and found myself alone with Delia.  She grasped my arm tightly as she shut the door and locked it, saying as she did so, in a voice so altered from her usual tone, that it sounded strangely in my ears—­

“’Thank you, my friend, for coming so soon.  I am in deep trouble, and need a counselor as well as a comforter.  I can trust you for both.’

“I drew my arm around her, so that by act I could give more than the assurance of words, and walked from the door with her to a lounge between the windows, where we sat down.  Her face had a shrunken aspect, like the face of one who had been sick; and it showed also the marks of great suffering.

“‘You may trust me as your own sister, Delia,’ said I, ’and if in my power to counsel or to comfort, both will be freely accorded.’

“I called her Delia, instead of Mrs. Dewey; not from design, but because the old name by which I had known her was first on my lips.

“I thought there was a sudden lifting of her eyes as I pronounced this name.  The effect, if any followed, was not to repel, but to draw her closer.

“‘I am standing,’ she said, speaking slowly and solemnly, ’at the edge of a deep abyss, my way hedged up on both sides, and enemies coming on behind.  I have not strength to spring over; and to fall is destruction.  In my weakness and despair, I turn to you for help.  If there is help in any mortal arm, something tells me it is in yours.’

“She did not weep, nor show strong emotion.  But her face was almost colorless, and presented an image of woe such as never met my eyes, except in pictures.

“‘You have heard, no doubt,’ she went on, ’some of the stories to my discredit which have been circulated in S——.  That I was gay and imprudent at Saratoga, cannot be denied—­gay and imprudent as are too many fashionable women, under the exciting allurements of the place.  Little fond flirtations with gentlemen made up a part of our pastime there.  But as for sin—­it was not in my thoughts!’ She said this with an emphasis that assured me of its truth.  ’A mere life of fashionable pleasure is a great exhauster of resources.  One tires of this excitement and of that, pushing them aside, as a child does an old or broken toy, to grasp after something new.  It is not surprising, therefore, that mere pleasure-seeking women forget at times the just proprieties of life, and, before they are aware of danger, find themselves in very equivocal positions.  This was simply my case.  Nothing more—­nothing less.’

“She paused and looked earnestly into my face, to see if I credited this assertion.