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“Mrs. Harding’s poor widow, I suppose,” said Mrs. Little, in a half-sneering, half-malicious tone of voice.

Mrs. Johns looked surprised, as a matter of course.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing, much. Only I’ve heard of this destitute widow before.”

“You have?”

“Yes, and between ourselves,”–the voice of Mrs. Little became low and confidential–“it’s the opinion of Mrs. Miller and myself, that there is no poor widow in the case.”

“Mrs. Little! You astonish me! No poor widow in the case! I can’t understand this. Mrs. Harding was very clear in her statement. She described the widow’s condition, and very much excited my sympathies. What object can she have in view?”

“Mrs. Miller and I think,” said the visitor, “and with good reason, that this poor widow is only put forward as a cover.”

“As a cover to what?”

“To some charities that she has reasons of her own for not wishing to make public.”

“Still in the dark. Speak out more plainly.”

“Plainly, then, Mrs. Johns, we have good reasons for believing, Mrs. Miller and I, that she is begging for some of her own poor relations. Mrs. Miller is going to see if she can find the widow.”

“Indeed! That’s another matter altogether. I promised to do something in the case, but shall now decline. I couldn’t have believed such a thing of Mrs. Harding! But so it is; you never know people until you find them out.”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Johns. You never spoke a truer word in your life,” replied Mrs. Little, emphatically.

On the day following, after seeing the poor widow, ministering to some of her immediate wants, and encouraging her to expect more substantial relief, Mrs. Harding called, as she had promised to do, on Mrs. Miller. A little to her surprise, that lady received her with unusual coldness; and yet, plainly, with an effort to seem friendly.

“You have called about the poor widow you spoke of yesterday?” said Mrs. Miller.

“Such is the object of my present visit.”

“What is her name?”

“Mrs. Aitken.”

“Where did you say she lived?”

The residence was promptly given.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Mrs. Miller, slightly colouring, and with some embarrassment, “that I would call in and see this poor woman myself.”

“I wish you would,” was the earnest reply of Mrs. Harding. “I am sure, if you do so, all your sympathies will be excited in her favour.”

As Mrs. Harding said this, she arose, and with a manner that showed her feelings to be hurt, as well as mortified, bade Mrs. Miller a formal good-morning, and retired. Her next call was upon Mrs. Johns. Much to her surprise, her reception here was quite as cold; in fact, so cold, that she did not even refer to the object of her visit, and Mrs. Johns let her go away without calling attention to it herself. So affected was she by the singular, and to her unaccountable change in the manner of these ladies, that Mrs. Harding had no heart to call upon two others, who had promised to do something for the widow, but went home disappointed, and suffering from a troubled and depressed state of feeling.

So far as worldly goods were concerned, Mrs. Harding could not boast very large possessions. She was herself a widow; and her income, while it sufficed, with economy, to supply the moderate wants of her family, left her but little for luxuries, the gratification of taste, or the pleasures of benevolence. Quick to feel the wants of the needy, no instance of destitution came under her observation that she did not make some effort toward procuring relief.

What now was to be done? She had excited the sick woman’s hopes–had promised that her immediate wants, and those of her children, should be supplied. From her own means, without great self-denial, this could not be effected. True, Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Johns had both promised to call upon the poor widow, and, in person, administer relief. But Mrs. Harding did not place much reliance on this; for something in the manner of both ladies impressed her with the idea that their promise merely covered a wish to recede from their first benevolent intentions.