A few days ago, as I was riding along on a visit to one of my patients, I met Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford, with two of their children, driving out in their carriage.  They stopped, and we were passing a few pleasant words, when there came by two persons, plainly, almost coarsely dressed—­a mother and her daughter.  Both had bundles in their hands.  Over the mother’s face a veil was drawn, and as she passed, with evidently quickening steps, she turned herself partly away.  The daughter looked at us steadily from her calm blue eyes, in which you saw a shade of sadness, as though already many hopes had failed.  Her face was pale and placid, but touched you with its expression of half-concealed suffering, as if, young as she was, some lessons of pain and endurance had already been learned.

“Who are they?” asked Mrs. Wallingford.

“Delia Floyd and her daughter,” said I.

No remark was made.  If my ears did not deceive me, I heard a faint sigh pass the lips of Mr. Wallingford.

I spoke to my horse, and, bowing mutually, we passed on our ways.

“Twenty years ago, and now!” said I to myself, falling into a sober mood, as thought went back to the sweet, fragrant morning of Delia’s life, and I saw it in contrast with this dreary autumn.  “If the young would only take a lesson like this to heart!”

In the evening, Mr. Wallingford called to see me.

“I have not been able, all day,” said he, “to get the image of that poor woman and her daughter out of my mind.  What are their circumstances, Doctor?”

“They live with Squire Floyd,” I answered, “and he is very poor.  I think Delia and her daughter support themselves by their needles.”

“What a fall!” he said, with pity in his tones.

“Yes, it was a sad fall—­sad, but salutary, I trust.”

“How was she after her separation from Mr. Dewey?”

“Very bitter and rebellious, for a time.  His marriage seemed to arouse every evil passion of her nature.  I almost shuddered to hear the maledictions she called down upon the head of his wife one day, when she rode by in the elegant equipage of which she had once been the proud owner.  She fairly trembled with rage.  Since then, the discipline of the inevitable in life has done its better work.  She has grown subdued and patient, and is doing all a mother in such narrow circumstances can do for her children.”

“What of Dewey’s second wife?” asked Mr. Wallingford.

“She has applied for a divorce from him, on the ground that he is a convicted felon; and will get a decree in her favor, without doubt.”

“What a history!” he exclaimed.  Then, after a pause, he asked—­

“Cannot something be done for Mr. Floyd?”

“I have understood,” said I, “that the company about to start the mills again have engaged him as manager.”

“Is that so?  Just what I was thinking,” he replied, with animation.  “I must look after that matter, and see that it does not fall through.”