“A young girl, unmarried, who, a few weeks ago, through a merciful fate, lost her child at its birth.”
The faint flush on Mrs. Levice’s cheek receded.
“Who told you this?” she questioned in an even, low voice.
“I thought you could not know. Mrs. Blake, the landlady where the girl lives, told me.”
“And how, pray, do you connect Ruth with this girl?”
“I will tell you. Mrs. Blake does my white sewing. I was there this morning; and just as I went into her room, I saw Ruth leaving another farther down the hall. Naturally I asked Mrs. Blake who had the room, and she told me the story.”
“Naturally.” The cutting sarcasm drove the blood to Mrs. Lewis’s face.
“For me it was; and in this case,” she retorted with rising accents, “my vulgar curiosity had its vulgar reward. I heard a scandalous account of the girl whom my cousin was visiting, and, outside of Dr. Kemp, Ruth is the only visitor she has had.”
“I am sorry to hear this, Jennie.”
“I know you are, Aunt Esther. But what I find so very queer is that Dr. Kemp, who pretends to be her friend,—and I have seen them together many times,—should have sent her there. Don’t you?”