"Mrs. McKee for me," said Le Moyne. "I daresay, if I know that--

er--Tillie is waiting with the punch, I'll be fairly regular to my meals."

It was growing late. The Street, which mistrusted night air, even on a hot

summer evening, was closing its windows. Reginald, having eaten his fill,

had cuddled in the warm hollow of Sidney's lap, and slept. By shifting his

position, the man was able to see the girl's face. Very lovely it was, he

thought. Very pure, almost radiant--and young. From the middle age of his

almost thirty years, she was a child. There had been a boy in the shadows

when he came up the Street. Of course there would be a boy--a nice,

clear-eyed chap-Sidney was looking at the moon. With that dreamer's part of her that she

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had inherited from her dead and gone father, she was quietly worshiping the

night. But her busy brain was working, too,--the practical brain that she

had got from her mother's side.

"What about your washing?" she inquired unexpectedly.

K. Le Moyne, who had built a wall between himself and the world, had

already married her to the youth of the shadows, and was feeling an odd

sense of loss.

"Washing?"

"I suppose you've been sending things to the laundry, and--what do you do

about your stockings?"

"Buy cheap ones and throw 'em away when they're worn out." There seemed to

be no reserve with this surprising young person.

"And buttons?"

"Use safety-pins. When they're closed one can button over them as well

as--"

"I think," said Sidney, "that it is quite time some one took a little care

of you. If you will give Katie, our maid, twenty-five cents a week, she'll

do your washing and not tear your things to ribbons. And I'll mend them."

Sheer stupefaction was K. Le Moyne's. After a moment:-"You're really rather wonderful, Miss Page. Here am I, lodged, fed,

washed, ironed, and mended for seven dollars and seventy-five cents a

week!"

"I hope," said Sidney severely, "that you'll put what you save in the

bank."

He was still somewhat dazed when he went up the narrow staircase to his

swept and garnished room. Never, in all of a life that had been active,

--until recently,--had he been so conscious of friendliness and kindly

interest. He expanded under it. Some of the tired lines left his face.

Under the gas chandelier, he straightened and threw out his arms. Then he

reached down into his coat pocket and drew out a wide-awake and suspicious

Reginald.




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