I went back immediately, only stopping at the market to get meat for Mr. Reynolds’ supper.  It was after half past five and dusk was coming on.  I got a boat and was rowed directly home.  Peter was not at the foot of the steps.  I paid the boatman and let him go, and turned to go up the stairs.  Some one was speaking in the hall above.

I have read somewhere that no two voices are exactly alike, just as no two violins ever produce precisely the same sound.  I think it is what they call the timbre that is different.  I have, for instance, never heard a voice like Mr. Pitman’s, although Mr. Harry Lauder’s in a phonograph resembles it.  And voices have always done for me what odors do for some people, revived forgotten scenes and old memories.  But the memory that the voice at the head of the stairs brought back was not very old, although I had forgotten it.  I seemed to hear again, all at once, the lapping of the water Sunday morning as it began to come in over the door-sill; the sound of Terry ripping up the parlor carpet, and Mrs. Ladley calling me a she-devil in the next room, in reply to this very voice.

But when I got to the top of the stairs, it was only Mr. Howell, who had brought his visitor to the flood district, and on getting her splashed with the muddy water, had taken her to my house for a towel and a cake of soap.

I lighted the lamp in the hall, and Mr. Howell introduced the girl.  She was a pretty girl, slim and young, and she had taken her wetting good-naturedly.

“I know we are intruders, Mrs. Pitman,” she said, holding out her hand.  “Especially now, when you are in trouble.”

“I have told Miss Harvey a little,” Mr. Howell said, “and I promised to show her Peter, but he is not here.”

I think I had known it was my sister’s child from the moment I lighted the lamp.  There was something of Alma in her, not Alma’s hardness or haughtiness, but Alma’s dark blue eyes with black lashes, and Alma’s nose.  Alma was always the beauty of the family.  What with the day’s excitement, and seeing Alma’s child like this, in my house, I felt things going round and clutched at the stair-rail.  Mr. Howell caught me.

“Why, Mrs. Pitman!” he said.  “What’s the matter?”

I got myself in hand in a moment and smiled at the girl.

“Nothing at all,” I said.  “Indigestion, most likely.  Too much tea the last day or two, and not enough solid food.  I’ve been too anxious to eat.”

Lida—­for she was that to me at once, although I had never seen her before—­Lida was all sympathy and sweetness.  She actually asked me to go with her to a restaurant and have a real dinner.  I could imagine Alma, had she known!  But I excused myself.

“I have to cook something for Mr. Reynolds,” I said, “and I’m better now, anyhow, thank you.  Mr. Howell, may I speak to you for a moment?”

He followed me along the back hall, which was dusk.