r in her voice touched Mark's sympathy. "She was old and
simple-hearted. She was Helen's aunt," and this, more than aught else,
helped him to a decision. "She must be homesick in the Bowery; he should
die if compelled to stay there long; he would take her to his mother's
and keep her until the morrow, and perhaps until she left for home;
telling Helen that night, of course, and then suffering her to act
accordingly."

This he proposed to his client; assuring her of his mother's entire
willingness to receive her, and urging so many reasons why she should go
there, instead of "up to Katy's," where they were in such confusion that
Aunt Betsy was at last persuaded, and was soon riding uptown in a
Twenty-third Street stage, with Mark Ray her _vis-a-vis_ and Mattie at
her right. Why Mattie was there Mark could not conjecture; and perhaps
she did not know herself, unless it were that, disappointed in her call
on Mrs. Cameron, she vaguely hoped for some redress by calling on Mrs.
Banker. How then was she chagrined, when, as the stage left them at a
handsome brownstone front, near Fifth Avenue Hotel, Mark said to her, as
if she were not of course expected to go in, "Please tell your mother
that Miss Barlow is stopping with Mrs. Banker to-day. Has she baggage at
your house?--If so, we will send around for it at once. Your number,
please?"

His manner was so offhand and yet so polite that Mattie could neither
resist him, nor yet be angry, though there was a sad feeling of
disappointment at her heart as she gave the required number, and then
shook Aunt Betsy's hand, whispering in a choked voice:

"You'll come to us again before you go home?"

"Of course I shall," Aunt Betsy answered, feeling that something was
wrong, and wondering if she herself were in fault.

With a good-by to Mark, whose bow atoned for a great deal, Mattie walked
slowly away, leaving Mark greatly relieved. Aunt Betsy was as much as he
cared to have on his hands at once, and as he led her up the steps, he
began to wonder more and more what his mother would say to his bringing
that stranger into her house, unbidden and unsought.

"I'll tell her just the truth," was his rapid decision, and assuming
a manner which warned the servant who answered his ring neither to be
curious nor impertinent, he conducted his charge into the parlor, and
bringing her a chair before the grate, went in quest of his mother, who
he found was out.

"Kindle a fire then in the front