It was not until the afternoon of the day that he met Westgate on the street that the Reverend Mr. Farrar was able to go to Factory Hill. It was a suburban residence district, tenanted mostly by day-laborers and their families. It lay about two miles from the center of the city, on an elevated plateau overlooking the plant of the Malleson Manufacturing Company. The houses in the neighborhood were all small and unpretentious, and some of them were shabby and ill-kept. But the house that Mary Bradley occupied, small as it was, gave evidence of being well cared for by its tenant. The rector had no difficulty in finding it. Every one about there knew where Mrs. Bradley lived. He knocked at the crape-decorated door, and the mistress of the house, herself, opened it. When she saw who was standing there her face clouded. A visit from a clergyman was neither expected nor desired. But she felt that she could not afford to be remiss in hospitality, even to an unwelcome guest. So she invited him to come in. It was the living-room that he entered. From behind a closed door to the rear subdued sounds proceeded as though some one were working in the kitchen. Beyond another door, half opened, the rector caught a glimpse of a prone human body, covered over with a sheet. Otherwise Mary Bradley was alone. She made no pretense of being glad to see her visitor, but she set a chair for him, and waited until he should disclose his errand. And, now that he was here, he was at a loss to know just what he should say. He felt that this woman would resent any formal expres-
