"Your husband will be
wondering where you are. Some day you must tell me all about
yourself. I forget what your name is?"
"Fergusson," said Esther sadly.
"Mrs. Fergusson," repeated Mary half unconsciously. "And where did
you say you lived?"
"I never did say," muttered Esther; then aloud, "In Angel's Meadow,
145, Nicholas Street."
"145, Nicholas Street, Angel Meadow. I shall remember."
As Esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to depart, a
thought crossed Mary's mind that she had been cold and hard in her
manner towards one, who had certainly meant to act kindly in
bringing her the paper (that dread, terrible piece of paper!) and
thus saving her from--she could not rightly think how much, or how
little she was spared. So desirous of making up for her previous
indifferent manner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before her
departure.
But, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a frantic kind of
gesture, and saying the words--
"Not me. You must never kiss me. You!"
She rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and there wept
long and bitterly.
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