Mr. Holcombe had not come back.  He wrote me twice asking me to hold his room, once from New York and once from Chicago.  To the second letter he added a postscript: 

    “Have not found what I wanted, but am getting warm.  If any news,
    address me at Des Moines, Iowa, General Delivery.  H.”

It was nearly the end of April when I saw Lida again.  I had seen by the newspapers that she and her mother were coming home.  I wondered if she had heard from Mr. Howell, for I had not, and I wondered, too, if she would send for me again.

But she came herself, on foot, late one afternoon, and the school-teacher being out, I took her into the parlor bedroom.  She looked thinner than before, and rather white.  My heart ached for her.

“I have been away,” she explained.  “I thought you might wonder why you did not hear from me.  But, you see, my mother—­” she stopped and flushed.  “I would have written you from Bermuda, but—­my mother watched my correspondence, so I could not.”

No.  I knew she could not.  Alma had once found a letter of mine to Mr. Pitman.  Very little escaped Alma.

“I wondered if you have heard anything?” she asked.

“I have heard nothing.  Mr. Howell was here once, just after I saw you.  I do not believe he is in the city.

“Perhaps not, although—­Mrs. Pitman, I believe he is in the city, hiding!”

“Hiding!  Why?”

“I don’t know.  But last night I thought I saw him below my window.  I opened the window, so if it were he, he could make some sign.  But he moved on without a word.  Later, whoever it was came back.  I put out my light and watched.  Some one stood there, in the shadow, until after two this morning.  Part of the time he was looking up.”

“Don’t you think, had it been he, he would have spoken when he saw you?”

She shook her head.  “He is in trouble,” she said.  “He has not heard from me, and he—­thinks I don’t care any more.  Just look at me, Mrs. Pitman!  Do I look as if I don’t care?”

She looked half killed, poor lamb.

“He may be out of town, searching for a better position,” I tried to comfort her.  “He wants to have something to offer more than himself.”

“I only want him,” she said, looking at me frankly.  “I don’t know why I tell you all this, but you are so kind, and I must talk to some one.”

She sat there, in the cozy corner the school-teacher had made with a portiere and some cushions, and I saw she was about ready to break down and cry.  I went over to her and took her hand, for she was my own niece, although she didn’t suspect it, and I had never had a child of my own.

But after all, I could not help her much.  I could only assure her that he would come back and explain everything, and that he was all right, and that the last time I had seen him he had spoken of her, and had said she was “the best ever.”  My heart fairly yearned over the girl, and I think she felt it.  For she kissed me, shyly, when she was leaving.