n he went in and shut
the door.

When I went down-stairs, Molly Maguire was waiting in the kitchen, and
had the audacity to ask me if I thought the coat needed a new lining!

It was on Monday evening that the strangest event in years happened to
me. I went to my sister's house! And the fact that I was admitted at a
side entrance made it even stranger. It happened in this way:

Supper was over, and I was cleaning up, when an automobile came to the
door. It was Alma's car. The chauffeur gave me a note:

"DEAR MRS PITMAN--I am not at all well, and very anxious. Will
you come to see me at once? My mother is out to dinner, and I am
alone. The car will bring you. Cordially,
"LIDA HARVEY."

I put on my best dress at once and got into the limousine. Half the
neighborhood was out watching. I leaned back in the upholstered seat,
fairly quivering with excitement. This was Alma's car; that was Alma's
card-case; the little clock had her monogram on it. Even the flowers
in the flower holder, yellow tulips, reminded me of Alma--a trifle
showy, but good to look at! And I was going to her house!

I was not taken to the main entrance, but to a side door. The queer
dream-like feeling was still there. In this back hall, relegated from
the more conspicuous part of the house, there were even pieces of
furniture from the old home, and my father's picture, in an oval gilt
frame, hung over my head. I had not seen a picture of him for twenty
years. I went over and touched it gently.

"Father, father!" I said.

Under it was the tall hall chair that I had climbed over as a child,
and had stood on many times, to see myself in the mirror above. The
chair was newly finished and looked the better for its age. I glanced
in the old glass. The chair had stood time better than I. I was a
middle-aged woman, lined with poverty and care, shabby, prematurely
gray, a little hard. I had thought my father an old man when that
picture was taken, and now I was even older. "Father!" I whispered
again, and fell to crying in the dimly lighted hall.

Lida sent for me at once. I had only time to dry my eyes and
straighten my hat. Had I met Alma on the stairs, I would have passed
her without a word. She would not have known me. But I saw no one.

Lida was in bed. She was lying there with a rose-shaded lamp beside
her, and a great bowl of spring flowers on a little stand at her
elbow. She sat up when I went in, and had a maid place a chair for