ice in the matter. The next
morning when the two girls, rather later than usual, reached the south
door of the church where a stern guardian always stood to watch lest
wolves entered under pretense of business, they saw a woman standing on
the steps and gazing at them as they approached from the avenue. In this
they found nothing to surprise them, but as they came face to face with
her they noticed that the stranger's dress and features were peculiar
and uncommon even in New York, the sink of races. Although the weather
was not cold, she wore a fur cap, picturesque but much worn, far from
neat, and matching in dirt as in style a sort of Polish or Hungarian
capote thrown over her shoulders. Her features were strong, coarse and
bloated; her eyes alone were fine. When she suddenly spoke to Esther her
voice was rough, like her features; and though Esther had seen too
little of life to know what depths of degradation such a face and voice
meant, she drew back with some alarm. The woman spoke in French only to
ask whether this was the church of St. John. Replying shortly that it
was, Esther passed in without waiting for another question; but as she
climbed the narrow and rough staircase to her gallery, she said to
Catherine who was close behind:

"Somewhere I have seen that woman's eyes."

"So have I!" answered Catherine, in a tone of suppressed excitement so
unusual that Esther stopped short on the step and turned round.

"Don't you know where?" asked Catherine without waiting to be
questioned.

"Where was it?"

"In my picture! Mr. Wharton gave me her eyes. I am sure that woman is
his wife."

"Catherine, you shall go back to Colorado. You have been reading too
many novels. You are as romantic as a man."

Catherine did not care whether she were romantic or not; she knew the
woman was Wharton's wife.

"Perhaps she means to kill him," she ran on in a blood-curdling tone.
"Wouldn't it be like Mr. Wharton to be stabbed to the heart on the steps
of a church, just as his great work was done? Do you know I think he
would like it. He is dying to be tragic like the Venetians, and have
some one write a poem about him." Then after a moment's pause, she
added, in the same indifferent tone of voice: "All the same, if he's not
there, I mean to go back and look out for him. I'm not going to let that
woman kill him if I can help it!"

A warm dispute arose between the two girls which continued after they
reached their scaffold and