"He—he should have been," sobbed Ida May, in a quivering voice. "It was all a mistake, a terrible mistake," she continued, wringing her hands.
The lady, who did not know her story, mistook her.
When she told her she started back in wonder.
Quick as thought she had decided upon her course of action.
"I wish to make an appointment with you," she said, "to talk over this matter. Can you come here to-morrow?"
"No," said Ida May. "I shall be too busy. I have some work from one of the stores, that will keep me engaged."
"Perhaps I can assist you so that it will not be necessary for you to work so hard. Still, if to-morrow is inconvenient, come in the evening."
She was about to add, "I pity you;" but there was something in the girl's face that forbid her pity.
The lady watched her curiously until she was out of sight. Then, with a sigh of relief, she walked slowly up the grand staircase to her boudoir.