perpetually pulled out her side-combs.

"I saw her this morning," St. George said. "I went up to the
Reformatory in Westchester, and I spoke with her."

"Mercy!" ejaculated Mrs. Hastings, "I wonder she didn't tear your
eyes out. Did they have her in a cage or in a cell? What was the
creature about?"

"She was in a missionary meeting at the moment," St. George
explained, smiling.

"Mercy!" said Mrs. Hastings in exactly the same tone. "Some trick, I
expect. That's what I warn Olivia: 'So few things nowadays are done
through necessity or design.' Nearly everything is a trick. Every
invention is a trick--a cultured trick, one might say. Murder is a
trick, I suppose, to a murderer. That's why civilization is bad for
morals, don't you think? Well, and so she talked with you?"

"No, Mrs. Hastings," said St. George, "she did not say one word. But
she wrote something, and that is what I have come to bring you."

"What was it--some charm?" cried Mrs. Hastings. "Oh, nobody knows
what that kind of people may do. I'll meet any one face to face, but
these juggling, incantation individuals appal me. I have a brother
who travels in the Orient, and he tells me about hideous things they
do--raising wheat and things," she vaguely concluded.

"Ah!" said St. George quickly, "you have a brother--in the Orient?"