It had rained steadily since morning. The long gloomy day seemed never to near its close, and Alma watched the clock with impatience for she expected George in the late afternoon. George never came in the day time before, but to-night he had a serious case, so he had promised to come to take supper with Alma and so make the unbearable evening somewhat shorter.
No visitors had bothered her to-day, and it was four o'clock when the bell first rang its cheery note through the dreary house.
"George!" Alma exclaimed rising from her chair and hastily putting a letter in her bosom,—a letter she had read and reread many times in her lonesomeness—Will's last passionate word to her, Will's whole heart unbared to her to forgive and love as never before! Too late came the wonderful revelation of a woman's true being—too late came the answering glow from a heart awakened by the passionate call of love! Will was gone from her life forever, and her lips could never utter the new things that she found revealed in herself. Only his memory remained to be cherished. But she clung to this memory with redoubled fervor. Never for a moment did she doubt his goodness. Even his double crime assumed no hideous proportions to her stricken conscience. Both were for her sake, and, let the world scorn him as it would, she would always consider him a fearful sacrifice to her selfish life.
This was Alma's first hard life lesson. But she learned it well. All the good lying dormant under her superficial unreal existence, suddenly became active and volcanic. Alma was the inevitable sufferer.
The maid came to her half opened door and knocked gently.
"I will be right down," Alma said, and the surprised girl hurried away without giving the card of the visitor.
Alma descended the stairs slowly, trying hard to prepare herself to give him a less forlorn welcome.
At the parlor door she halted abruptly. Surprise and consternation overspread her face. She faced Edith Esterbrook with a mixture of defiance and hauteur.
"My maid has made a mistake," she said shortly. "I am at home to no one. You will pardon me, but I cannot receive any visitors."
Most women would have felt the keen repulse, and made a hurried exit. But Edith was not thinking of herself. She scarcely heard Alma's words. Her heart and mind were filled with the vision of grief that stood in the doorway—the pale drawn features, the sunken eyes, and the general hopeless despairing of face and form.