d that it was a week before she was able to go to D----. She found
the Baileys' door swinging on its hinges, and a high-stepping hen of
inquisitive disposition investigating the front room: the Baileys had
gone.

"They went to Chicago four days ago," an amiable neighbor explained: "they
didn't say what fur. The little boy he cried 'cause he wanted to go on the
island fust. Guess _he_ ain't like to live long: he's a weak, pinin'
little chap."

Only once did Therese hear from Mrs. Bailey. The letter came a few days
after her useless drive to D----. It was dated Chicago, and expressed
simply but fervently her gratitude for all Mrs. Greymer's kindness.
Enclosed were three one-dollar bills, part payment, the writer said, "of
my debt to Mrs. von Arno, and I hope she won't think I meant to run away
from it because I can't just now send more." There was no allusion to her
present condition or her prospects for the future. Mrs. Greymer read the
letter aloud, then held out the bills to the countess.

She pushed them aside as if they stung her. "What does the woman think I
am made of?" she exclaimed. "Why, it's hideous, Therese! Write and tell
her I never meant her to pay me."

"I am afraid the letter won't reach her," said Mrs. Greymer.

Nor did it: in due course of time Therese received her own letter back
from the Dead-Letter Office. The words of interest and sympathy, the plans
and encouragement, sounded very oddly to her then, for, as far as they
were concerned, Martha Bailey's history was ended. It was in July the
countess had met them again. She was in Chicago. Otto was dead. He had
given back to his wife by his will the property which had come to him
through her: whether because of a late sense of justice or a dislike to
his heir, a distant cousin who wrote theological works and ate with his
knife, the countess never ventured to decide. The condition of part of
this property, which was in Chicago, had obliged her to go there. She
arrived on the evening of the fifteenth of July--a day Chicago people
remember because the great railroad strike of 1877 reached the city that
day.

The countess found the air full of wild rumors. Stories of shops closed by
armed men, of vast gatherings of Communists on the North Side, of robbery,
bloodshed and--to a Chicago ear most blood-curdling whisper of all--of a
contemplated second burning of the city, flew like prairie-fire through
the streets.

The countess's lawyer, whom she had