t they discussed the situation.

"I'm afraid the bed's too small," said Esther, when Debby kindly
suggested a continuance of hospitality.

"Perhaps I took up too much room," said the hostess.

"No, dear; you took up too little. We should have to have a wider bed
and, as it is, the bed is almost as big as the room."

"There's the back garret overhead! It's bigger, and it looks on the back
yard just as well. I wouldn't mind moving there," said Debby, "though I
wouldn't let old Guggenheim know that I value the view of the back yard,
or else he'd raise the rent."

"You forget the _Greeners_ who moved in yesterday."

"Oh, so I do!" answered Debby with a sigh.

"Strange," said Esther, musingly, "that I should have shut myself out of
my old home."

The postman's knuckles rapping at the door interrupted her reflections.
In Royal Street the poor postmen had to mount to each room separately;
fortunately, the tenants got few letters. Debby was intensely surprised
to get one.

"It isn't for me at all," she cried, at last, after a protracted
examination of the envelope; "it's for you, care of me."

"But that's stranger still." said Esther. "Nobody in the world knows my
address."

The mystery was not lessened by the contents. There was simply a blank
sheet of paper, and when this was unfolded a half-sovereign rolled out.
The postmark was Houndsditch. After puzzling herself in vain, and
examining at length the beautiful copy-book penmanship of the address,
Esther gave up the enigma. But it reminded her that it would be
advisable to apprise her publishers of her departure from the old
address, and to ask them to keep any chance letter till she called. She
betook herself to their offices, walking. The day was bright, but
Esther walked in gloom, scarcely daring to think of her position. She
entered the office, apathetically hopeless. The junior partner welcomed
her heartily.

"I suppose you've come about your account," he said. "I have been
intending to send it you for some months, but we are so busy bringing
out new things before the dead summer season comes on." He consulted his
books. "Perhaps you would rather not be bothered," he said, "with a
formal statement. I have it all clearly here--the book's doing fairly
well--let me write you a cheque at once!"

She murmured assent, her cheeks blanching, her heart throbbing with
excitement and surprise.

"There you are--sixty-two pounds ten," he said. "Our profits are just