the wall and an unrecognizable portrait of herself in oil, done by a
wandering artist and still preserved as a receipt for his unpaid
bill. Of these facts Mrs. Horncastle knew nothing; she was evidently
preoccupied, and after she had removed her outer duster and entered the
room, she glanced at the clock on the mantel-shelf and threw herself
with an air of resigned abstraction in an armchair in the corner. Her
traveling-dress, although unostentatious, was tasteful and well-fitting;
a slight pallor from her fatiguing journey, and, perhaps, from some
absorbing thought, made her beauty still more striking. She gave even an
air of elegance to the faded, worn adornments of the room, which it is
to be feared it never possessed in Miss Kitty's occupancy. Again she
glanced at the clock. There was a tap at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened to a Chinese servant bearing a piece of torn paper with
a name written on it in lieu of a card.

Mrs. Horncastle took it, glanced at the name, and handed the paper back.

"There must be some mistake," she said, "it do not know Mr. Steptoe."

"No, but you know ME all the same," said a voice from the doorway as a
man entered, coolly took the Chinese servant by the elbows and thrust
him into the passage, closing the door upon him. "Steptoe and Horncastle
are the same man, only I prefer to call myself Steptoe HERE. And I see
YOU'RE down on the register as 'Horncastle.' Well, it's plucky of you,
and it's not a bad name to keep; you might be thankful that I have
always left it to you. And if I call myself Steptoe here it's a good
blind against any of your swell friends knowing you met your HUSBAND
here."

In the half-scornful, half-resigned look she had given him when he
entered there was no doubt that she recognized him as the man she had
come to see. He had changed little in the five years that had elapsed
since he entered the three partners' cabin at Heavy Tree Hill. His short
hair and beard still clung to his head like curled moss or the crisp
flocculence of Astrakhan. He was dressed more pretentiously, but still
gave the same idea of vulgar strength. She listened to him without
emotion, but said, with even a deepening of scorn in her manner:--

"What new shame is this?"

"Nothing NEW," he replied. "Only five years ago I was livin' over on the
Bar at Heavy Tree Hill under the name of Steptoe, and folks here might
recognize me. I was here when your particular friend, Jim Stacy,
who