not counted on so hard a task. She had even thought of money!

"Poor thing! That will make your duty very hard. I wish--but there is no
use in wishing! Necessity knows no pity. Winifred, you must summon all
your strength of mind, and get out of this false position."

"What am I to do? What can I do?" wailed Winifred. She was without means
or occupation, and could not fly from the house.

"You can go away," said Mrs. Carshaw, "without letting him know whither
you have gone, and till you go you can throw cold water on his passion
by pretending dislike or indifference--"

"But could I do such a thing, even if I tried?" came the despairing cry.

"It will be hard, certainly, but a woman should be able to accomplish
everything for the man she loves. Remember for whose sake you will be
doing it, and promise me before I leave you."

"Oh, you should give me time to think before I promise anything," sobbed
Winifred. "I believe I shall go mad. I am the most unfortunate girl that
ever lived. I did not seek him--he sought me; and now, when I--Have you
no pity?"

"You see that I have--not only pity, but confidence. It is hard, but I
feel that you will rise to it. I, and you, are acting for Rex's sake,
and I hope, I believe, you will do your share in saving him. And now I
must go, leaving my sting behind me. I am so sorry! I never dreamed that
I should like you so well. I have seen you before somewhere--it seems to
me in an old dream. Good-by, good-by! It had to be done, and I have done
it, but not gladly. Heaven help us women, and especially all mothers!"

Winifred could not answer. She was choked with sobs, so Mrs. Carshaw
took her departure in a kind of stealthy haste. She was far more
unhappy now than when she entered that quiet house. She came in
bristling with resolution. She went out, seemingly victorious, but
feeling small and mean.

When she was gone Winifred threw herself on a couch with buried head,
and was still there an hour later when Miss Goodman brought up a letter.
It was from a dramatic agent whom she had often haunted for work--or
rather it was a letter on his office paper, making an appointment
between her and a "manager" at some high-sounding address in East
Orange, New Jersey, when, the writer said, "business might result."

She had hardly read it when Rex Carshaw's tap came to the door.

About that same time Steingall threw a note across his office table to
Clancy, who was there to announce that in