Alfred Cutts.
How often had she been dexterously left alone with them in the
drawing-room! Thank God! all that was far, far behind her. Death was
dignified, sweet-smelling in its peace, when she thought of all that the
gilt-and-chintz drawing-room stood for in her memories. Death was sweet
when life was so ugly.

Now she was in the street, the door closed behind her, and no servant
had seen her.

It was a foggy afternoon, and the soiled white houses opposite were
dim. A thin, stray cat rubbed against the area railings and mewed as
Allida stood, pausing for a moment, on the steps.

Which was the nearest pillar-box? At the end of the street, just round
the corner. The plaintive, nasal cry of the cat caught her attention.
Poor creature! She ought to spare some poison for it. The irony of the
idea almost made her smile as she stooped and patted the dingy head. The
cat, leaning like a ship in a stiff wind, walked to and fro across her
dress, looking up at her as it still plaintively, interrogatively mewed.
Its appeal put aside for a moment the decision as to which pillar-box.
She picked up the cat and returned to the door. The maid answered her
ring.

Allida was a little sorry that she must speak once more, after all, on
this mundane plane. The finish of her tragedy seemed slightly marred by
this episode. But she heard her calm voice telling the maid to feed the
cat--"And keep it until you can find a home for it. Cook won't mind,
will she?"

"Oh, no, miss; cook is fond of cats. Poor thing, then," said the maid,
who was tender of heart.

Again the door was shut, and again the pillar-box was the last act but
one of her drama.

She walked swiftly down the street, thinking, oddly, more about the cat
than about her destination or the letter she held clutched in her
pocket. The stripes on the cat's head, its rough, sooty fur, the sharp
projection of its backbone and the grotesque grimace of its mew--her
mind dwelt on these trivial details; and under all was a funny added
contentment at this further proof of the mercilessness and ugliness of
the world she was leaving.

The corner of the street was reached and turned. There, in the fog,
stood the red shaft of the pillar-box. Beyond it a street lamp, already
lighted, made a blur of light in the thick air and cast upward a long
cone of shadow.

Allida's heart suddenly shrank and shuddered.

The lamp and the pillar-box looked horrible. Death was horrible. To see
him no m