mmers and nails, and
believing in good, forceful, honest ways of doing things; feeling
also a righteous and neighborly indignation against this child,
negligent of her worn and lonely mother; "skitin' about the country,
makin' believe big and famous. She would let her know the truth,
right out plain; it would be good for her."

What she had meant to write at the end was "Pneumonia;" but spelling
it "Numoney," it had got transmitted as we have seen.

It struck Marion through and through; but she did not feel it at
first. It met the tide of her triumph and elation full in her
throbbing veins; and the two keen currents turned to a mere
stillness for a moment.

Then she dropped down where she was, all into the golden mass and
shine of her bright raiment, with her hands before her eyes, the
paper crumpled in the clinch of one of them.

The President of the People's Lyceum Club made a little speech, and
dismissed the audience. "Miss Kent had received by telegraph most
painful intelligence from her family; was utterly unable to appear
again."

The audience behaved as an American People's Club knows so well how
to behave; dispersed quietly, without a grumble, or a recollection
of the half value of the tickets lost. Miss Kent's carriage drove
rapidly from a side door. In two hours, she was on board the night
train down from Vermont.

That was on Friday night.

On Sunday morning Frank Sunderline came in on the service train, and
went up to Pilgrim Street.

"Mrs. Kent is dead," he told Kay. "Marion is in awful trouble. Can't
you come out to her?"

Ray was just leaving the house to go to church. Instead, she went
with Frank to the horse-railroad station, catching the eleven
o'clock car. She had been expecting him in the afternoon, to take
her to drink tea with his mother, who was not able to come in to see
her.

In an hour, she went in at Mrs. Kent's white gate,--Frank leaving
her there. They both felt, without saying, that it would not be kind
to appear together. Marion had that news, though, as she had had the
other; from her Job's comforter, Mrs. Knoxwell, who was persistently
"sitting with her."

"There's Frank Sunderline and Ray Ingraham at the gate. She's
coming in. They're engaged. It's just out."

"What _do_ I care?" cried Marion, fiercely, turning upon her, and
astounding Mrs. Knoxwell by the sudden burst of angry words; for she
had not spoken for more than an hour, in which the blacksmith's wife
had adm