“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’ve been to St. John’s mission sewing-school,” replied Edith.  “I have a class there.”

“You have!  Why didn’t you tell me this before?  I don’t like such doings.  This is no place for you.”

“My place is where I can do good,” returned Edith, speaking slowly, but with great firmness.

“Good!  You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to work like this.  I don’t want you mixed up with these low, vile people, and I won’t have it!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp, positive voice.

Edith made no answer, and they walked on together.

“I shall speak to your father about this,” said Mrs. Dinneford.  “It isn’t reputable.  I wouldn’t have you seen here for the world.”

“I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear,” returned Edith.

There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to speak, and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say.

“How long have you been going to St. John’s mission school?” at length queried Mrs. Dinneford.

“I’ve been only a few times,” replied Edith.

“And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I suppose—­gutter children?”

“They are God’s children,” said Edith, in a tone of rebuke.

“Oh, don’t preach to me!” was angrily replied.

“I only said what was true,” remarked Edith.

There was silence again.

“Are you going directly home?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had walked the distance of several blocks.  Edith replied that she was.

“Then you’d better take that car.  I shall not be home for an hour yet.”

They separated, Edith taking the car.  As soon as she was alone Mrs. Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back from some engagement.  A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of the principal hotels of the city.  Passing in, she went up to a reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room.  He was of low stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark, restless eyes, and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally sprinkled with gray.  The lower part of his face was shaved clean.  He showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford.

“Mr. Feeling,” she said, coldly.

The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford’s face, but was not able to do so.  There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his could not bear.

“What do you want with me, sir?” she demanded, a little sharply.

“Take a chair, and I will tell you,” replied Freeling, and he turned, moving toward a corner of the room, she following.  They sat down, taking chairs near each other.

“There’s trouble brewing,” said the man, his face growing dark and anxious.