sense of desolation. Every gust of rain that beat
on the carriage roof and windows made her feel more and more like an
outcast. She never forgot these moments. She used to say that in them she
had lived the whole life of the loneliest outcast that was ever born. Long
years afterward, she wrote a poem, called "The Outcast," which was so
intense in its feeling one could have easily believed that it was written
by Ishmael. When she was asked once how and when she wrote this poem, she
replied, "I did not write it: I lived it one night in entering a strange
town." In vain she struggled against the strange and unexpected emotion. A
nervous terror of arriving at the hotel oppressed her more and more;
although, thanks to Harley Allen's thoughtfulness, she knew that their
rooms were already engaged for them. She felt as if she would rather drive
on and on, in all the darkness and rain, no matter where, all night long,
rather than enter the door of the strange and public house, in which she
must give her name and her mother's name on the threshold.

When the carriage stopped, she moved so slowly to alight that her mother
exclaimed petulantly,--

"Dear me, child, what's the matter with you? Ain't you goin' to git out?
Ain't this the tavern?"

"Yes, mother, this is our place," said Mercy, in a low voice, unlike her
usual cheery, ringing tones, as she assisted her mother down the clumsy
steps from the old-fashioned, high vehicle. "They're expecting us: it is
all right." But her voice and face belied her words. She moved all
through the rest of the evening like one in a dream. She said little, but
busied herself in making her mother as comfortable as it was possible to
be in the dingy and unattractive little rooms; and, as soon as the tired
old woman had fallen asleep, Mercy sat down on the floor by the window,
and leaning her head on the sill cried hard.

Chapter III.

The next morning the sun shone, and Mercy was herself again. Her
depression of the evening before seemed to her so causeless, so
inexplicable, that she recalled it almost with terror, as one might a
temporary insanity. She blushed to think of her unreasonable sensitiveness
to the words and tones of Stephen White. "As if it made any sort of
difference to mother and to me whether he were our friend or not. He can
do as he likes. I hope I'll be out when he calls," thought Mercy, as she
stood on the hotel piazza, after breakfast, scanning with a keen and eag