Down the stair-way pealed the wild, melancholy music of a German waltz; from the dining-room came the clink and jingle of silver, and china, and glass.
The woman's haggard face filled with scorn and bitterness as she gave one fleeting, backward glance.
"They say there is a just and avenging Heaven, yet Carl Walraven is master of all this.

Wealth, love, and honor for him, and a nameless grave for her; the streets, foul and deadly, for me.

The mill of the gods may grind sure, but it grinds fearfully slow--fearfully slow!" They were the last words Carl Walraven heard her utter.

She opened the house door, gathered her threadbare shawl closer around her, and fluttered away in the wild, wet night..