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“You don’t know me, of course,” she said, with a feeble attempt at dignity. “I am Mrs. Baxter. I–I used to live here long ago. I thought I’d walk over today and see my old home.”

A fit of coughing interrupted her words, and she trembled like a leaf.

“Gracious me!” exclaimed Mrs. March blankly. “You don’t mean to tell me that you have walked over from Oriental today–and you a sick woman! For pity’s sake, come in, quick. And if you’re not wet to the skin!”

She fairly pulled her visitor into the hall, and led her to the sitting-room.

“Sit down. Take this big easy-chair right up to the fire–so. Let me take your bonnet and shawl. I must run right out to tell Hannah to get you a hot drink.”

“You are very kind,” whispered the other. “I don’t know you, but you look like a woman I used to know when I was a girl. She was a Mrs. Bennett, and she had a daughter, Anna. Do you know what became of her? I forget. I forget everything now.”

“My name is March,” said Mrs. March briefly, ignoring the question. “I don’t suppose you ever heard it before.”

She wrapped her own warm shawl about the other woman’s thin shoulders. Then she hastened to the kitchen and soon returned, carrying a tray of food and a steaming hot drink. She wheeled a small table up to her visitor’s side and said, very kindly,

“Now, take a bite, my dear, and this raspberry vinegar will warm you right up. It is a dreadful day for you to be out. Why on earth didn’t Joel Kent drive you over?”

“They didn’t know I was coming,” whispered Mrs. Baxter anxiously. “I–I ran away. Sarah wouldn’t have let me come if she had known. But I wanted to come so much. It is so nice to be home again.”

Mrs. March watched her guest as she ate and drank. It was plain enough that her mind, or rather her memory, was affected. She did not realize that this was no longer her home. At moments she seemed to fancy herself back in the past again. Once or twice she called Mrs. March “Mother.”

Presently a sharp knock was heard at the hall door. Mrs. March excused herself and went out. In the porch stood Theodosia Stapp and a woman whom Mrs. March did not at first glance recognize–a tall, aggressive-looking person, whose sharp black eyes darted in past Mrs. March and searched every corner of the hall before anyone had time to speak.

“Lawful heart!” puffed Mrs. Stapp, as she stepped in out of the biting wind. “I’m right out of breath. Mrs. March, allow me to introduce Mrs. Kent. We’re looking for Mrs. Baxter. She has run away, and we thought perhaps she came here. Did she?”

“She is in my sitting-room now,” said Mrs. March quietly.

“Didn’t I say so?” demanded Mrs. Kent, turning to Mrs. Stapp. She spoke in a sharp, high-pitched tone that grated on Mrs. March’s nerves. “Doesn’t she beat all! She slipped away this morning when I was busy in the kitchen. And to think of her walking six miles over here in this wind! I dunno how she did it. I don’t believe she’s half as sick as she pretends. Well, I’ve got my wagon out here, Mrs. March, and I’ll be much obliged if you’ll tell her I’m here to take her home. I s’pose we’ll have a fearful scene.”

“I don’t see that there is any call for a scene,” said Mrs. March firmly. “The poor woman has just got here, and she thinks she has got home. She might as well think so if it is of any comfort to her. You’d better leave her here.”

Theodosia gave a stifled gasp of amazement, but Mrs. March went serenely on.

“I’ll take care of the poor soul as long as she needs it–and that will not be very long in my opinion, for if ever I saw death in a woman’s face, it is looking out of hers. I’ve plenty of time to look after her and make her comfortable.”