What _have_ I said?
I have outdone myself.

How far worse a case than the fugitive wife whose destiny I was so resolute to learn from her injured husband! "I am so sorry," I stammer--"I never thought--I did not know--" "It is of no consequence," she answers, speaking with some difficulty, and with a slight but quite musical tremor in her voice--very different from the ugly gulpings and catchings of the breath which always set off _my_ tears--"but the fact is, that I _have_ one little one--and--and--she no longer lives with me; my husband's people have taken her; I am sure that they meant it for the best; only--only--I am afraid I cannot quite manage to talk of her yet" (turning away from me, and looking up into Algy's face with a showery smile).

Then, as if unable to run the risk of any other further shock to her feelings, she rises and takes her leave; Algy eagerly attending her to the door.
The old deaf gentleman departs at the same time, loading Barbara with polite parting messages to her husband, and bowing distantly to _me_.
Algy reenters presently, looking cross and ruffled.
"You really are _too_ bad, Nancy!" he says, harshly, throwing himself into the chair lately occupied by Mrs.Huntley.

"You grow worse every day--one would think you did it on purpose--riding rough-shod over people's feelings." I stand aghast.

Formerly, I used not to mind rough words; but I think Roger must have spoilt me; they make me wince now.
"But--but--it was not _dead_!" I say, whimpering; "it had only gone to visit its grandmother." "Never you mind, my Nancy!" says Barbara, in a whisper, drawing me away to the window, and pressing her soft, cool lips, to the flushed misery of my cheeks; "she was not hurt a bit! her eyes were as dry as a bone!".