hile this was the case, I have not
cared to intrude upon her; although she has been kind and polite to me
whenever we happened to meet. Now, when the summer friends who courted
her are dropping away like autumn leaves, a true friend may draw near
and help her in the trial through which she is passing."

"Right, Constance! right!" said I, warmly. "Your clearer eyes have gone
down below, the surface. Oh, yes; call upon her, and be her true friend,
if she will permit you to come near enough. There can be no loss to you;
there may be great gain to her. Was there any thing in her manner that
encouraged you to approach?"

"I think so. It was this, no doubt, that stirred the suggestion in my
mind."

Constance waited a day or two, pondering the matter, and then made a
call at the Allen House.

"How were you received?" I asked, on meeting her.

"Kindly," she said.

"But with indifference?"

"No. Mrs. Dewey was surprised, I thought, but evidently pleased."

"How long did you stay?"

"Only for a short time."

"What did you talk about?"

"Scarcely any thing beyond the common-place topics that come up on
formal visits. But I penetrated deep enough into her mind to discover
the 'aching void' there, which she has been so vainly endeavoring to
fill. I do not think she meant to let me see this abyss of wretchedness;
but her efforts to hide it were in vain. Unhappy one! She has been
seeking to quench an immortal thirst at broken cisterns which can hold
no water."

"Can you do her any good, Constance?" I asked.

"If we would do good, we must put ourselves in the way," she replied.
"Nothing is gained by standing afar off."

"Then you mean to call upon her again?"

"She held my hand at parting, with such an earnest pressure, and looked
at me so kindly when she said, 'Your visit has been very pleasant,' that
I saw the way plain before me."

"You will wait until she returns your call?"

"I cannot say. It will depend upon the way things shape themselves in my
mind. If I can do her good, I shall not stand upon etiquette."

As I came in sight of my modest little home a few days afterwards, I
saw the stylish carriage of Mrs. Dewey dash away from my door, taking a
direction opposite to that by which I was approaching.

"How are the mighty fallen!" It was hardly a good spirit by whom this
thought was quickened, for I was conscious of something like a feeling
of triumph. With an effort I repressed the ungenerous state of min