And she hurried, weary though she was.
But in the little street itself she stood aghast.

A crowd filled it; the crowd stood before the empty house of sorrow and of crime; and in a moment Rachel saw the cause.
It was her own fault.

She had left the light burning in the upper room, the bedroom on the second floor.
Rachel joined the skirts of the crowd--drawn by an irresistible fascination--and listened to what was being said.

All eyes were upon the lighted window of the bedroom--watching for herself, as she soon discovered--and this made her doubly safe where she stood behind the press.
"She's up there, I tell yer," said one.
"Not her! It's a ghost." "Her 'usband's ghost, then." "But vere's a chap 'ere wot sore 'er fice to fice in the next street; an' followed 'er and 'eard the door go; an' w'en 'e come back wiv 'is pals, vere was vat light." "Let's 'ave 'er aht of it." "Yuss, she ain't no right there." "No; the condemned cell's the plice for 'er!" "Give us a stone afore the copper comes!" And Rachel saw the first stone flung, and heard the first glass break; and within a very few minutes there was not a whole pane left in the front of the house; but that was all the damage which Rachel herself saw done.
A hand touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Do you still pin your faith to the man in the street ?" said a voice.
And, though she had heard it for the first time that very evening, it was a voice that Rachel seemed to have known all her life..