“Where do you want to get out?” shouted Mr. Smith. “I’ll pull up whenever you say so.”
When they reached the central part of the city, Margaret gave the signal, and Mr. Smith assisted her out.
“You had better let me pay you,” she said.
“No, no, you’re perfectly welcome. I like company. It sort of shortens the way. Just hail me again whenever you’re going my way, and I’ll give you a lift and welcome.”
“Thank you; you are very kind.”
Margaret mechanically took the first street that led into Broadway. She felt more at home in a crowd, and scarcely knowing where she was going, walked slowly along the sidewalk, jostled on this side and on that, but apparently without heeding it.
At length her attention was attracted.
On the opposite side of the street a couple were walking slowly, chatting in a lively way as they walked. The lady was gayly dressed, and was evidently pleased with the attentions of her companion. He is an old acquaintance, Jacob Wynne, the scrivener, but no more resembling his former self than a butterfly the chrysalis from which it emerged. Lewis Rand had paid him the thousand dollars agreed upon, and he had patronized the tailor extensively in consequence. He was now fashionably attired, and had the air of one on whom fortune smiles.
It was only by chance that Margaret’s attention was drawn to him.
When she recognized him, all at once her heart sank within her. In her enfeebled state the shock was too great. She sank upon a step half fainting.