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distressed, and, seeing this, he hastened to add that, for all he knew, all ground-squirrels built nests, regardless of sex. As a matter of fact, it developed that he knew nothing whatever of ground-squirrels. Sidney was relieved. She chatted gayly of the tiny creature--of his rescue in the woods from a crowd of little boys, of his restoration to health and spirits, and of her expectation, when he was quite strong, of taking him to the woods and freeing him.
Le Moyne, listening attentively, began to be interested. His quick mind had grasped the fact that it was the girl's bedroom he had taken. Other things he had gathered that afternoon from the humming sewing-machine, from Sidney's businesslike way of renting the little room, from the glimpse of a woman in a sunny window, bent over a needle. Genteel poverty was what it meant, and more--the constant drain of disheartened, middle-aged women on the youth and courage of the girl beside him.
K. Le Moyne, who was living his own tragedy those days, what with poverty and other things, sat on the doorstep while Sidney talked, and swore a quiet oath to be no further weight on the girl's buoyant spirit. And, since determining on a virtue is halfway to gaining it, his voice lost its perfunctory note. He had no intention of letting the Street encroach on him. He had built up a wall between himself and the rest of the world, and he would not scale it. But he held no grudge against it. Let others get what they could out of living.
Sidney, suddenly practical, broke in on his thoughts:--
"Where are you going to get your meals?"
"I hadn't thought about it. I can stop in somewhere on my way downtown. I work in the gas office--I don't believe I told you. It's rather haphazard--not the gas office, but the eating. However, it's convenient."
"It's very bad for you," said Sidney, with decision. "It leads to slovenly habits, such as going without when you're in a hurry, and that sort of thing. The only thing is to have some one expecting you at a certain time."
"It sounds like marriage." He was lazily amused.
"It sounds like Mrs. McKee's boarding-house at the corner. Twenty-one meals for five dollars, and a ticket to punch. Tillie, the dining-room girl, punches for every meal you get. If you miss any meals, your ticket is good until it is punched. But Mrs. McKee doesn't like it if you miss."
"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 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,