o
his head. He had been looking the whole time at Strelitski's face with
his usual unobservant gaze, just seeing it was gloomy. Now, as in a
sudden flash, he saw it sallow and careworn to the last degree. The eyes
were almost feverish, the black curl on the brow was unkempt, and there
was a streak or two of gray easily visible against the intense sable.
What change had come over him? Why this new-born interest in Esther?
Raphael felt a vague unreasoning resentment rising in him, mingled with
distress at Strelitski's discomposure.

"No; I don't know that there is any _particular_ reason why I want to
know," answered his friend slowly. "She was a member of my congregation.
I always had a certain interest in her, which has naturally not been
diminished by her sudden departure from our midst, and by the knowledge
that she was the author of that sensational novel. I think it was cruel
of Mrs. Henry Goldsmith to turn her adrift; one must allow for the
effervescence of genius."

"Who told you Mrs. Henry Goldsmith turned her adrift?" asked Raphael
hotly.

"Mrs. Henry Goldsmith," said Strelitski with a slight accent of wonder.

"Then it's a lie!" Raphael exclaimed, thrusting out his arms in intense
agitation. "A mean, cowardly lie! I shall never go to see that woman
again, unless it is to let her know what I think of her."

"Ah, then you do know something about Miss Ansell?" said Strelitski,
with growing surprise. Raphael in a rage was a new experience. There
were those who asserted that anger was not among his gifts.

"Nothing about her life since she left Mrs. Goldsmith; but I saw her
before, and she told me it was her intention to cut herself adrift.
Nobody knew about her authorship of the book; nobody would have known to
this day if she had not chosen to reveal it."

The minister was trembling.

"She cut herself adrift?" he repeated interrogatively. "But why?"

"I will tell you," said Raphael in low tones. "I don't think it will be
betraying her confidence to say that she found her position of
dependence extremely irksome; it seemed to cripple her soul. Now I see
what Mrs. Goldsmith is. I can understand better what life in her society
meant for a girl like that."

"And what has become of her?" asked the Russian. His face was agitated,
the lips were almost white.

"I do not know," said Raphael, almost in a whisper, his voice failing in
a sudden upwelling of tumultuous feeling. The ever-whirling wheel of
journali