n a peculiar grace to her face in the days when
things had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full with
youth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of love
and mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softness
which still remained was that softness which sorrow and continual
melancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a light
shawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Her
faded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the under garment
had lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told that
woman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read in
the outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story was
told so that those who ran might read it. When she had left her home
this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that
something of the charm of apparel might be left to her; but she had
known of her own failure at every twist that she had given to her
gown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. She
had despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainly
striving to bring them back to their old forms; but still she had
persevered. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloves
which would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden the
rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and
had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to her
that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists;--and yet she
knew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing could
avail her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come
forth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the whole
night had access to his room been debarred to her. "George," she
said, standing at the bottom of the sofa, "what am I to do?"

As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were at
her back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciated
the little struggles she had made to create by her appearance some
reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of
the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the
sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel, the
price of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all,
and lay there for a while, silently reading it.

"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."

"I don't want yo