“How late was it when she took dinner?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Did she eat heartily?”

“I didn’t notice her particularly.  She was at the table for only a few minutes.”

“I fear for the worst,” said Mrs. Wykoff.  “If Mary Carson sat all day on Monday in damp clothes, wet feet, and without taking a sufficient quantity of nourishing food, I wouldn’t give much for her life.”

Mrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart.  There was a cloud on her face.

“You will see Miss Carson to-day?” she said.

“Oh, yes.”

“At what time do you think of going?”

“I shall not be able to leave home before late in the afternoon.”

“Say four o’clock.”

“Not earlier than half past four.”

Mrs. Lowe stood for some moments with the air of one who hesitated about doing something.

“Will you call for me?” Her voice was slightly depressed.

“Certainly.”

“What you have said troubles me.  I’m sure I didn’t mean to be unkind.  It was thoughtlessness altogether.  I hope she’s not ill.”

“I’ll leave home at half past four,” said Mrs. Wykoff.  “It isn’t over ten minutes’ walk to your house.”

“You’ll find me all ready.  Oh, dear!” and Mrs. Lowe drew a long, sighing breath.  “I hope she didn’t take cold at my house.  I hope nothing serious will grow out of it.  I wouldn’t have anything of this kind happen for the world.  People are so uncharitable.  If it should get out, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I’m sure the girl is a great deal more to blame than I am.  Why didn’t she see to it that her feet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her work?”

Mrs. Wykoff did not answer.  Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments, waiting for some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to offer.

“Good morning.  You’ll find me all ready when you call.”

“Good morning.”

And the ladies parted.

“Ah, Mrs. Lowe!  How are you this morning?”

A street meeting, ten minutes later.

“Right well.  How are you?”

“Well as usual.  I just called at your house.”

“Ah, indeed!  Come, go back again.”

“No, thank you; I’ve several calls to make this morning.  But, d’ you know, there’s a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your acquaintance?”

“Of my acquaintance?”

“Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate.”

“What is it?” There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air of Mrs. Lowe.

“Something about murdering a sewing-girl.”

“What?” Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a frightened look came into her face.

“But there isn’t anything in it, of course,” said the friend, in considerable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe.

“Tell me just what you have heard,” said the latter.  “You mean me by the lady of your intimate acquaintance.”