Presently Mrs. Hart opened the door wiping her hand, red and smoking with dish-water, upon her apron. The worried expression deepened on the visitor's face as he addressed the woman with visible embarrassment.
"Er—I—I—suppose you are Mrs. Hart?" he inquired awkwardly.
"That's my name, sir," replied she with pretentious dignity.
"Er—your-er—may I come in madam?
"Certainly," and she opened the door to admit him, and offered a chair.
"Your husband is an employee in the Fisher Oil Mills, is he not?"
Mrs. Hart straightened herself with pride as she replied in the affirmative. She had always been proud of Mr. Hart's position as foreman of the big oil mills, and was never so happy as when he was expounding to some one in her presence, the difficulties and intricacies of machine-work.
"Well you see my dear Mrs. Hart," continued the visitor. "Now pray don't get excited—there has been an accident, and your husband—has—er—been hurt, you know."
But for a painful whitening in her usually rosy face, and a quick compression of her lips, the wife made no sign.
"What was the accident?" she queried, leaning her elbows on her knees.