“I have not been able, all day,” said he, “to get the image of that poor woman and her daughter out of my mind. What are their circumstances, Doctor?”
“They live with Squire Floyd,” I answered, “and he is very poor. I think Delia and her daughter support themselves by their needles.”
“What a fall!” he said, with pity in his tones.
“Yes, it was a sad fall—sad, but salutary, I trust.”
“How was she after her separation from Mr. Dewey?”
“Very bitter and rebellious, for a time. His marriage seemed to arouse every evil passion of her nature. I almost shuddered to hear the maledictions she called down upon the head of his wife one day, when she rode by in the elegant equipage of which she had once been the proud owner. She fairly trembled with rage. Since then, the discipline of the inevitable in life has done its better work. She has grown subdued and patient, and is doing all a mother in such narrow circumstances can do for her children.”
“What of Dewey's second wife?” asked Mr. Wallingford.
“She has applied for a divorce from him, on the ground that he is a convicted felon; and will get a decree in her favor, without doubt.”
“What a history!” he exclaimed. Then, after a pause, he asked—
“Cannot something be done for Mr. Floyd?”