AT THE CLOSE OF THE SECOND DAY.
THE little room, high up in the rear of the old-fashioned New York house, had come to seem like home to its occupant. Its small window overlooked the garden of a German neighbor who had cultivated, in his ten by twelve expanse of ground, a riot of blooming sweet peas, scarlet geraniums, and sturdy vines that reached out over the adjoining walls in most friendly fashion. Busy bees had found the little honey mart in the heart of the big city, and their buzzing, as they worked among the flowers, added the final touch to the homely charm of the place.
Virginia Imboden looked at the familiar scene with unseeing eyes, her forehead pressed dismally against the window-pane. Before her was this artless evidence of simple prosperity. In the street, beyond the garden wall, white-frocked children played about, daintily regardful of their clothes. The
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