While yet in the gall of this new bitterness, Mrs. Caldwell heard a carriage stop in front of the house, and, glancing through the window, saw that it was on the opposite side of the street.  She knew it to be the carriage of a lady whose rank made her favor a desirable thing to all who were emulous of social distinction.  To be of her set was a coveted honor.  For her friend and neighbor opposite, Mrs. Caldwell did not feel the highest regard; and it rather hurt her to see the first call made in that quarter, instead of upon herself.  It was no very agreeable thought, that this lady-queen of fashion, so much courted and regarded, might really think most highly of her neighbor opposite.  To be second to her, touched the quick of pride, and hurt.

Only a card was left.  Then the lady reentered her carriage.  What?  Driving away?  Even so.  Mrs. Caldwell was not even honored by a call!  This was penetrating the quick.  What could it mean?  Was she to be ruled out of this lady’s set?  The thought was like a wounding arrow to her soul.

Unhappy Mrs. Caldwell!  Her daughter’s careless habits; the warning sign of decay among her pearly teeth; the stain on a beautiful carpet, and, worse than all as a pain-giver, this slight from a magnate of fashion;—­were not these enough to cast a gloom over the state of a woman who had everything towards happiness that wealth and social station could give, but did not know how to extract from them the blessing they had power to bestow?  Slowly, and with oppressed feelings, she left the parlors, and went up stairs.  Half an hour later, as she sat alone, engaged in the miserable work of weaving out of the lightest material a very pall of shadows for her soul, a servant came to the door, and announced a visitor.  It was an intimate friend, whom she could not refuse to see—­a lady named Mrs. Bland.

“How are you, Mrs. Caldwell?” said the visitor, as the two ladies met.

“Miserable,” was answered.  And not even the ghost of a smile played over the unhappy face.

“Are you sick?” asked Mrs. Bland, showing some concern.

“No, not exactly sick.  But, somehow or other, I’m in a worry about things all the while.  I can’t move a step in any direction without coming against the pricks.  It seems as though all things were conspiring against me.”

And then Mrs. Caldwell went, with her friend, through the whole series of her morning troubles, ending with the sentence,—­

“Now, don’t you think I am beset?  Why, Mrs. Bland, I’m in a purgatory.”

“A purgatory of your own creating, my friend,” answered Mrs. Bland with the plainness of speech warranted by the intimacy of their friendship; “and my advice is to come out of it as quickly as possible.”

“Come out of it!  That is easily said.  Will you show me the way?”

“At some other time perhaps.  But this morning I have something else on hand.  I’ve called for you to go with me on an errand of mercy.”