Madame asked a few questions about her old schoolmate, receiving monosyllabic answers, then waited. The silence was not awkward, but of that intimate sort which, with women, precedes confidences.

"I suppose you wonder why I came," the younger woman said, after a long pause.

"No," Madame replied, gently, "for you told me in your note that you were troubled and thought I could help you."

"I don't know why I should have thought of you especially, though I have never forgotten what mother told me about coming to you, if I were in trouble, but two or three days ago, it came to me all at once that I was wandering in a maze of darkness and that you could show me the way out."

"I hope I may," the old lady murmured. "I shall be very glad to, if I can. What has gone wrong?"

"Everything," she returned, her brown eyes filling with mist. "Of course it's my husband. It always is, isn't it?"

Running Away

"I don't know why it should be. Is he cruel to you?"

"No, that is, he doesn't beat me or anything of that sort. He isn't coarse. But there's a refined sort of cruelty that hurts worse. I--I couldn't bear it any longer, and so I came away."

"Was he willing for you to come?"