am only a visitor here, but, if you feel able, and
will come with me to the homestead, you shall, I know, find welcome
and kindness, or, if you will wait, there are horses, and you shall be
brought--yes, indeed," I added, as she shook her head in sad negation,
"you will be welcome."

I was sure that, whatever ill chances had befallen the mother of this
child, she was one of those who are found in the sight of the Perfect
Justice sworn for by the angels. I knew also that Glenn would see that
she should be cordially sheltered and brought back to health; for men
like Glenn, I said to myself, are kinder in their thought of suffering
women than women themselves-are kinder, juster, and less prone to think
evil.

She raised her head, and answered: "I think that I could walk; but this,
you see, is the only hospitality that I can accept, save, it may be,
some bread and a little meat, that the child suffer no more, until I
reach Winnanbar, which, I fear, is still far away."

"This," I replied, "is Winnanbar; the homestead is over there, beyond
the hill."

"This is--Winnanbar?" she whisperingly said, "this--is--Winnanbar! I
did not think--I was-so near."... A thankful look came to her face. She
rose, and took the child again and pressed it to her breast, and her
eyes brooded upon it. "Now she is beautiful," I thought, and waited for
her to speak.

"Sir--" she said at last, and paused. In the silence a footstep sounded
without, and then a form appeared in the doorway. It was Glenn.

"I followed you," he said to me; "and--!" He saw the woman, and a low
cry broke from her.

"Agnes! Agnes!" he cried, with something of sternness and a little
shame.

"I have come--to you--again-Robert," she brokenly, but not abjectly,
said.

He came close to her and looked into her face, then into the face of the
child, with a sharp questioning. She did not flinch, but answered
his scrutiny clearly and proudly. Then, after a moment, she turned a
disappointed look upon me, as though to say that I, a stranger, had read
her aright at once, while this man held her afar in the cold courts of
his judgment ere he gave her any welcome or said a word of pity.

She sank back on the bench, and drew a hand with sorrowful slowness
across her brow. He saw a ring upon her finger. He took her hand and
said: "You are married, Agnes?"

"My husband is dead, and the sister of this poor one also," she replied;
and she fondled the child and raised her eyes to