rsted shawl over her head, came nervously into the
room; and, without so much as even a nod to any of us, edged quicky out
of the front door.

"Well--" began my father, his clear, scrutinizing eyes fixed on Darton.

"A-nother sign," expostulated Mr. Darton, "of what ye might call the
smallness of human van-ity. We must forgive 'er. Ye see Selma was
gettin' so upset with her rancorous gossipin'--perhaps I should have
been more careful--but it was a question of Selma and--"

"Quite right, Darton," my father nodded to him. "I'm going up for a
moment."

I had walked to the front window with its starched, lacy curtain; and
stood still, looking out in a puzzled maze at the strangeness of the
morning's happenings, a certain sense of disconsolateness stealing over
me. Beyond the row of dark, spare trees I could see a gaunt figure in a
black skirt and a bumpy red shawl moving along the road; and the picture
of her, scurrying away, remained, as such apparently unimportant figures
often will, sharply engraven on my mind. As I recall it in late years,
I often wonder how my father could have mistaken the lying, rancorous
woman of Con Darton's description for this stern-lipped creature, who
had gone by wordlessly, shutting the door gently behind her, a door that
she was never to re-open.

I turned to find myself alone in the room. Mr. Darton had disappeared as
unexpectedly but more quietly than he had entered. I could hear my
father's footsteps going softly about upstairs; and his voice, which
though quick and crisp, had a soothing quality, talking in a gentle
monotone to some one. After about ten minutes he came to the head of the
steps and called to me.

"Mrs. Darton says will you come up, Tom?"

Knees quivering with the queerness of it all as well as with the icy
frigidity of the hallway, I mounted the uncarpeted stairs.

Following in the direction of the voices, I came to a dark,
low-ceilinged room with a pine bed, on which lay a withered-looking
woman with sparsely lashed eyelids and fine, straight, straw-colored
hair. Near her was a small oblong bundle, wrapped round with a bright
patch-work quilt; and out of this bundle a cry issued. As I peered into
it, a red weazened face stared back at me, the eyes opening startlingly
round. I looked long in wonder. The woman sighed; and, my gaze reverting
to her, I thought suddenly of what a neighbor had once said to my
father, "Selma Perkins used to be the prettiest girl in schoo