“She has held herself very high, and quite aloof from many of her old friends,” Constance resumed.  “While this was the case, I have not cared to intrude upon her; although she has been kind and polite to me whenever we happened to meet.  Now, when the summer friends who courted her are dropping away like autumn leaves, a true friend may draw near and help her in the trial through which she is passing.”

“Right, Constance! right!” said I, warmly.  “Your clearer eyes have gone down below, the surface.  Oh, yes; call upon her, and be her true friend, if she will permit you to come near enough.  There can be no loss to you; there may be great gain to her.  Was there any thing in her manner that encouraged you to approach?”

“I think so.  It was this, no doubt, that stirred the suggestion in my mind.”

Constance waited a day or two, pondering the matter, and then made a call at the Allen House.

“How were you received?” I asked, on meeting her.

“Kindly,” she said.

“But with indifference?”

“No.  Mrs. Dewey was surprised, I thought, but evidently pleased.”

“How long did you stay?”

“Only for a short time.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Scarcely any thing beyond the common-place topics that come up on formal visits.  But I penetrated deep enough into her mind to discover the ‘aching void’ there, which she has been so vainly endeavoring to fill.  I do not think she meant to let me see this abyss of wretchedness; but her efforts to hide it were in vain.  Unhappy one!  She has been seeking to quench an immortal thirst at broken cisterns which can hold no water.”

“Can you do her any good, Constance?” I asked.

“If we would do good, we must put ourselves in the way,” she replied.  “Nothing is gained by standing afar off.”

“Then you mean to call upon her again?”

“She held my hand at parting, with such an earnest pressure, and looked at me so kindly when she said, ’Your visit has been very pleasant,’ that I saw the way plain before me.”

“You will wait until she returns your call?”

“I cannot say.  It will depend upon the way things shape themselves in my mind.  If I can do her good, I shall not stand upon etiquette.”

As I came in sight of my modest little home a few days afterwards, I saw the stylish carriage of Mrs. Dewey dash away from my door, taking a direction opposite to that by which I was approaching.

“How are the mighty fallen!” It was hardly a good spirit by whom this thought was quickened, for I was conscious of something like a feeling of triumph.  With an effort I repressed the ungenerous state of mind.

“So your call has been returned,” said I, on entering our sitting room.

“Yes.  How did you know?” Constance looked up, smiling, but curious.

“I saw Mrs. Dewey’s carriage leave our door as I turned into the street.  Did she come in, or only leave her card?”