and red. Drawing it back he blew on it for a little warmth.

"What are you doing out this time of night?" Laine asked the question hardly knowing why. "You ought to be home in bed."

"Ain't got no home." The boy laughed cheerfully, and again put his fist to his mouth and blew upon it. "I'm sleepin' with another boy this week, but I have to pay him. Please buy a paper, Mister!"

Under his breath Laine caught himself saying something, then handed the boy a piece of money and passed on. Where was he, anyhow? Surely he was in no mood for the life of this neighborhood. It was one he had seldom been in, and as he looked at its houses dull wonder filled him as to their occupants. To keep breath in their bodies meant sordid struggle and bitter strife, but possibly they were happy. Certainly he had long since learned the possession of mere material things did not mean happiness. He had long since learned a great many things it was unfortunate to know.

A clock in the church near by struck ten, and turning he went over into the Avenue and began his walk up-town. As he reached Madison Square he looked at the empty benches and wondered as to the fate of the derelicts who daily filled them in warm weather, and wondered if they, too, wondered what it was all for—this thing called life.

In contrast to the traffic of the day the stillness of the Avenue was puzzling. Only the whir of an automobile or the occasional hoofbeats of a cab-horse broke the silence, and hardly less dark than the tenements just passed were its handsome houses, with their closed shutters and drawn curtains, and the restless occupants therein. As he reached the Park he stopped, hesitated, and lighted a fresh cigar. Three squares away was his sister's house, and in it was the girl with the fresh, clear voice. He took the note she had sent him out of his pocket, and in the light hanging just above him looked again at the firm, clear writing, then put it back. Did she, too, wonder at life, at its emptiness and aimlessness? Her voice did not sound as if she were tired of it or found it wearisome. It sounded like a very happy voice.

At his door he turned the latch-key, and for a moment—a bare moment—drew back; then, with a shiver, he opened the door and went inside.

Moses was waiting. "Miss Dorothea she called me up, sir, and told me to be sure and give you this letter to-night. She slip out of bed to telephone when that French white lady was out the room, she say. She had her Ma send it by messenger, and she was so 'fraid you wouldn't get it to-night she couldn't sleep. She sent a peck of love."

Laine took the letter and went to his room. Dorothea was given to letters, and if his absence was unduly long a communication to that effect was promptly received. He had seen her last night, however. What was she wanting now? Breaking the seal, he read the sprawly writing with narrowed eyes, then read again, that he might miss no word.

DEAR UNCLE WINTHROP,—Moses telefoned us and Channing and I have just cried and cried and cried. But I won't even call his name if you will only come and let me kiss you so you will know. We wanted to send you some flowers but Claudia said our love was best. She is so sorry too. She had one and it died last spring. I had a headake to-day. It came from my heart because of you and she made it go away. I think she could make most any kind of pain go away. And her hands are not red and her hair is brown and her lashes are brown too, and long and lovely. I don't know the color of her eyes. I think they are glad color. I love her! I knew I would.

Your devoted niece, DOROTHEA.

P. S.—I told her you didn't like young ladies and she said she didn't like old gentlemen, except a few. Please, P-L-E-A-S-E come and see me—and you can come in the nursery if you don't want to see her. She knows.

  Your loving niece,
    DOROTHEA.

P. S. Again.—You ought to hear her laugh. Its delishus.

He put the letter back in the envelope, and the envelope in his pocket. "She knows," he repeated. What under heaven had Dorothea been telling her? He must see Dorothea and have it stopped. Did she think him a feeble and infirm person who leaned on a stick, or a crabbed and cross one who had no manners? He would have to call, if only to thank her for her note. No. He would do that in writing. Next week, perhaps, he might drop in and see Dorothea. But Hope and Channing should take the girl about, show her the city. Certainly Hope could not be so idiotic as to let clothes matter. In his sister's world clothes were the insignia of its order, and of late Hope had shown signs that needed nipping. He must see Hope. Next week would be time enough, but Hope and Dorothea must both be seen.

VII

AN AFTERNOON CALL

"How do you do? Oh, how do you do, too, Miss Keith?" Miss Robin French held out a hand first to Mrs. Channing Warrick and then to her guest and shook their hands with vigor.

"Did you ever know such weather at this season of the year? Even heat and cold are no longer like they used to be. Everything is intensified. Indeed I will have some tea! No lemon, and one lump. One. That's a sick-looking fire, Hope. Good gracious! I just did catch that vase of flowers! Such a stupid fancy, putting flowers everywhere for people to knock over. Well, Miss Keith, have you gotten your breath since you reached New York? Something of a town, isn't it?"

A gulp of hot tea, taken standing by Miss French, gave pause for a moment, and Claudia Keith instinctively drew her feet up under her chair behind the tea-table. To duck her head, as one would dodge an on-coming deluge, was an impulse, but only with her feet could effort be made for self-preservation, and as she refilled the cup held out to her by the breezy visitor she blessed the table which served as a breastwork of defense. With a hasty movement she put in the one lump and handed the cup back. "I breathe here very well," she said, and smiled into the scrutinizing eyes. "New York is very wonderful."

"And very disagreeable eight months out of the twelve." Miss French put her cup on the table, threw her fur coat on the chair behind her, sat down, and, taking the cup again, drank its entire contents. "Pretty good tea, Hope; at most places it's undrinkable." Again she handed the cup to Claudia. "One more and that's all. I'm cutting out tea a bit—only twelve cups a day now."

"Twelve!" The exclamation was beyond recall. Claudia's hand stopped in its pouring. "Twelve!"

"That's what I said. Have taken thirty many times, but the doctor
thought I was getting nerves and called me down. Nerves!" Miss
French's nose went up. "Nerves and nonsense are twin sisters, and
I've no opinion of either. How did you like the opera last night?"

The question being addressed apparently to the cigarette Miss French took out of a little silver case, lighted, and began to smoke, neither Mrs. Warrick nor Miss Keith answered, each waiting for the other; but it did not matter, Miss French was looking at a photograph in front of her. With lorgnette to her eyes, she examined it critically.

"Rather a good picture of your brother, Hope. Didn't know he'd do anything so human as have a picture taken." She took it up. "Winthrop would hardly take prizes at a beauty show, but he's certainly all there for something better. When did you get this?"

"A month ago, I guess." Mrs. Warrick took a log from the basket on the hearth and put it on the andirons. "The editors of the Review made him