Proudly, condescendingly, haughtily superior to the least sparing of herself,—­as one who stooped at the bidding of Duty,—­she had told her story, from first to last, omitting nothing; with head erect, pale lips, and flashing eyes,—­with a passing flush, perhaps, at the more shameful passages, but with no faltering, no dodging, no self-excusing, no beseeching,—­scornfully when she spoke of home, and the beginning of the end,—­redly, hatefully, wickedly dangerous, when Philip Withers came on the scene,—­with tremulous lips and the low tones of Gratitude’s most moving eloquence for the story of Miss Wimple and her sublimely simple sacrifice,—­modestly and with grateful deference, at the mention of Mr. Osgood and his rare chivalry.

Then, taking from her bosom a small morocco pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a card, she said,—­

“And now to toss that thing to the geese of Hendrik!  Read that, slowly, distinctly, that all may hear!”—­and she placed the card in Simon’s hand, who ran his eye over it for a moment, then stood up, and read:—­

“MADELINE,—­For God’s sake be merciful, be reasonable!  I will comply with your hardest terms,—­I will share all I possess with you, [Adelaide smiled,]—­I will even marry you after a time; but do not, I implore you, in your recklessness, involve me in your unnecessary ruin; do not fling me under the playful feet of that ingenious shrew Adelaide.  Meet me at the bridge tonight, in memory of our dear old love.”

“P.W.”

When Simon had read the card, he let it fall on the floor, with a gesture of disgust, and, without looking at Withers, who slunk, pitifully wilted, into a corner, returned to his place on a low stool, where he resumed his former attitude, holding the hand of Sally Wimple, who now, with closed eyes, reclined on Madeline’s bosom, —­that bosom that was, for her weariness, the type of the complete rest that crowns and blesses a brave struggle,—­of that all-for-the-best-ness that comes of the heart’s clearings-up.  Only Adelaide broke the silence; with her gaze fixed full on Withers, and a triumphant sneer crowning her happy lips, she uttered one word by way of chorus,—­“Joseph!”

At that word a faint flush flitted athwart the cheeks of Madeline, and she moved as if uneasy; but she did not speak again, nor turn her eyes to any face but Miss Wimple’s.

Josephine Splurge was there; but, perceiving no opening that she could fill to advantage with a delightful quotation, and having no pickle at hand whereto she might give all her mind, she supported a graceful silence with back hair and an attitude.

Mrs. Splurge was there,—­and that was all.  Not clearly understanding what she was called upon to say or do under the circumstances, nor prepared to take the responsibility of saying or doing anything without being called upon, she said and did nothing at all.  Mrs. Splurge, who had had some experience in that wise, had never been of so little consequence before.