The Glamor gone, what is left?

Since the glowing publication of Will Lambert's dishonesty and consequent suicide, Alma had completely hid herself, and would see no one but George. Repeatedly the bell announced visitors, but to all she was "not at home," and the very sound of the bell filled her with new misery.

For three days society had had the privilege of a new scandal for gossip. In her mind's eye, Alma pictured her acquaintances exchanging views and eagerly picking up new scraps of information. In her grief she imagined they came to her for curiosity only—all the friends of whom she proudly boasted before were distorted in her feverish brain and became prying gossips, filled with a mocking pity.

It had rained steadily since morning. The long gloomy day seemed never to near its close, and Alma watched the clock with impatience for she expected George in the late afternoon. George never came in the day time before, but to-night he had a serious case, so he had promised to come to take supper with Alma and so make the unbearable evening somewhat shorter.

No visitors had bothered her to-day, and it was four o'clock when the bell first rang its cheery note through the dreary house.

"George!" Alma exclaimed rising from her chair and hastily putting a letter in her bosom,—a letter she had read and reread many times in her lonesomeness—Will's last passionate word to her, Will's whole heart unbared to her to forgive and love as never before! Too late came the wonderful revelation of a woman's true being—too late came the answering glow from a heart awakened by the passionate call of love! Will was gone from her life forever, and her lips could never utter the new things that she found revealed in herself. Only his memory remained to be cherished. But she clung to this memory with redoubled fervor. Never for a moment did she doubt his goodness. Even his double crime assumed no hideous proportions to her stricken conscience. Both were for her sake, and, let the world scorn him as it would, she would always consider him a fearful sacrifice to her selfish life.

This was Alma's first hard life lesson. But she learned it well. All the good lying dormant under her superficial unreal existence, suddenly became active and volcanic. Alma was the inevitable sufferer.

The maid came to her half opened door and knocked gently.

"I will be right down," Alma said, and the surprised girl hurried away without giving the card of the visitor.

Alma descended the stairs slowly, trying hard to prepare herself to give him a less forlorn welcome.

At the parlor door she halted abruptly. Surprise and consternation overspread her face. She faced Edith Esterbrook with a mixture of defiance and hauteur.

"My maid has made a mistake," she said shortly. "I am at home to no one. You will pardon me, but I cannot receive any visitors."

Most women would have felt the keen repulse, and made a hurried exit. But Edith was not thinking of herself. She scarcely heard Alma's words. Her heart and mind were filled with the vision of grief that stood in the doorway—the pale drawn features, the sunken eyes, and the general hopeless despairing of face and form.

She advanced to Alma with two outstretched hands.

"Dear Mrs. Lambert, I have not come to you to offer my formal sympathy! Indeed no! I want to make you believe that my heart grieves with you, and longs to be a real help and comfort."

Alma looked into the sweet, pleading face. She could read only sincerity.

Mechanically she took the girl's hands.

"But I don't understand," she faltered, "why should you feel interested in me at all?"

Edith's eyes looked at her with a new light.

"I don't know why, but I am. I feel your sorrow deeply. Perhaps it is because I am so impressed with the Fatherhood of God, that when I hear of one of His children suffering, I hear His voice bidding me to go."

Alma looked at her in open wonder.

"And one so young! How can you feel this? I am much older, but I never even really believed in such a Fatherhood."

Edith led her to a settee.

"O won't you let me stay awhile with you?" she asked gently, "The day must be very long!"

Alma forgot her pride. Her mind relaxed under the strange personality of this young friend. For half an hour they talked. Indeed Alma afterward wondered why she had conversed the most. She found herself gradually confiding her innermost trials and fears—hopes she had none—and even went so far as to show Edith how she was to blame for all the disgrace, and not Will.

Finally she was in tears in Edith's arms, and Edith wept with her.

The bell rang suddenly and they drew apart.

"It is only Dr. Cadman—you know him? Don't go."

"George Cadman! no, I cannot stay. May I come again?"

"Yes, indeed. O thank you for your sweet sympathy."

Edith kissed her forehead and hurried away.

In the hallway, she met George. He took her proffered hand with no sign of emotion, and "hoped that she was well," in ordinary friendliness. Then he took from his pocket a letter.

"I was going to call upon you to give you this letter," he said gravely. "You remember me telling you of that sweet little 'Mormon' girl that I met out West? I have heard from her now and then since my return, and it hardly seems possible that now she is grown to womanhood,—just about your age. She writes that she is coming on a mission in a few weeks, and I can imagine she'll be quite a charming young lady, from what she was as a child. She'll be strange and quite lonesome at first. She says there are mission headquarters here somewhere, but she doesn't know any of these mission people. May I bring her to call on you when she comes?"

"Yes, indeed!" returned Edith kindly, "Poor child! Alone in this big city where everyone hates the 'Mormons!' I suppose that I would be prejudiced, if you had not talked to me about them."

"You and she have a great deal in common, and I think that you will be very happy to make a real friend of her."

"We'll see. Bring her to me as soon as she comes," replied Edith brightly, and with a friendly good-bye, she left him.

"He seems not to care very much," reflected Edith, as she walked home. "After all, men soon forget," she philosophised, "I didn't want him to suffer, but I thought that he would care a little," she mused with a childish regret, which she hastily overcame with shame at her sudden selfishness.