Drouet had been away since ten in the morning.

She had amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M.Clay which Drouet had let there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and by changing her dress for the evening.

Now she sat looking out across the park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and life can be under such circumstances.

As she contemplated her new state, the strain from the parlor below stole upward.

Within it her to the things which were best and saddest within the small limit of her experience.