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Mrs. Joel Kent was voluble in her thanks. It was evident that she was delighted to get the sick woman off her hands. Mrs. March cut her short with an invitation to stay to tea, but Mrs. Kent declined.

“I’ve got to hurry home straight off and get the men’s suppers. Such a scamper to have over that woman! I’m sure I’m thankful you’re willing to let her stay, for she’d never be contented anywhere else. I’ll send over what few things she has tomorrow.”

When Mrs. Kent had gone, Mrs. March and Mrs. Stapp looked at each other.

“And so this is your revenge, Anna March?” said the latter solemnly. “Do you remember what you said to me about her?”

“Yes, I do, Theodosia, and I thought I meant every word of it. But I guess my wicked streak ran out just when I needed it to depend on. Besides, you see, I’ve thought of Lou Carroll all these years as she was when I knew her–handsome and saucy and proud. But that poor creature in there isn’t any more like the Lou Carroll I knew than you are–not a mite. The old Lou Carroll is dead already, and my spite is dead with her. Will you come in and see her?”

“Well, no, not just now. She wouldn’t know me, and Mrs. Joel says strangers kind of excite her–a pretty bad place the hotel would be for her at that rate, I should think. I must go and tell Peter about it, and I’ll send up some of my black currant jam for her.”

When Mrs. Stapp had gone, Mrs. March went back to her guest. Lou Baxter had fallen asleep with her head pillowed on the soft plush back of her chair. Mrs. March looked at the hollow, hectic cheeks and the changed, wasted features, and her bright brown eyes softened with tears.

“Poor Lou,” she said softly, as she brushed a loose lock of grey hair back from the sleeping woman’s brow.