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“No! No!”

Grace shook her head in vigorous protest, and moved to the window again. Miss Whipple followed her.

“It—it’s all finished.”

“What’s all finished?” demanded Miss Whipple.

“My—our happiness. But I’ll never do other than love him. I can’t.”

“Then he can’t have hurt you very badly, my dear. Dogs are the only things which go on loving the men who ill-treat them.”

The shrewd old lady spoke softly, and with infinite understanding, close to Grace’s ear, while her old hand stole caressingly around the younger woman’s waist.

“I’m not going to ask you for your confidence, my dear—although it does one good sometimes to spread one’s troubles a little; makes them look a lot thinner—but I’d like to tell you this: if your husband ever loved you he’ll never forget you. I’ve studied my own sex for many long years—more years than I care to talk about—and I know the kind of women men love and the kind they think they love. If I were you, I’d have faith in the future, my dear. I take it he has gone crazy over some other woman?”

The abrupt question startled Grace.

“Please! Please!” she protested tearfully, clasping her hands tightly together and turning to face the old lady.

Miss Whipple smiled gently and patted the trembling hands.

“I thought so,” she said. “He’s been pretty tardy over the matter. This is the first time, of course?”

Grace looked despairingly into the little black eyes which looked at her so keenly, then she sobbed—and the black-clothed shoulder of the little old lady absorbed the tears which had been held back too long.

“There, there, my dear,” murmured Miss Whipple, her thin fingers gently stroking Grace’s bowed