k the impulse to speak. Yes, that was like him. For a
moment they blurred as she looked at them. She checked her inclination
to throw them into the stove, to burn them to ashes so that they could
work their evil spells no more. Later on, she would do so. But she
wanted them there until he returned.

She looked about the little room. Yes, it _was_ pretty and homelike,
deserving all the nice things people said about it. And what a real
pleasure she had had in transforming it, from the dreadful little place
it was when she first saw it, into what it was now. Not that she could
ever have worked the miracle alone.

She smiled sadly to herself. How all her thoughts, like homing pigeons,
had the one goal!

And how proud he was of it all. With what delighted, almost childlike
interest, he had watched each little change. And how he had acquiesced
in every suggestion and helped her to plan and carry out the things she
could not have done alone.

She lived again those long winter evenings when, snug and warm, the grim
cruelty of the storms shut out, she had read aloud to him while he
worked on making the chairs.

How long would it keep its prettiness with no woman's eye to keep its
jealous watch on it? The process of reversion to its old desolation
would be gradual. The curtains, the bright ribands, the cushions would
slowly become soiled and faded. And there would be no one here to renew
them. For a moment, the thought of asking Mrs. Sharp to look after them
came into her mind. But, no. She certainly had enough to do. And,
besides--the thought thrilled her with delight--_he_ would not like
having anyone else to touch them!

And she? She would be back in that old life where such simple little
things were a commonplace, a matter of course. And what interest would
they be to her? She could see herself ripping the ribands from an old
hat to tie back curtains for Mrs. Hubbard! Certainly that excellent lady
would be astonished if she suggested doing anything of the sort, and
small wonder. She hired the proper people to keep her house in order
just as she was going to hire her.

She found it in her heart to be sorry for Mrs. Hubbard. She had always
had her money. The joy of these little miracles of contrivance had never
been hers. She had bought her home. She had never, in all her pampered
life, made one.

Home! What a desolating word it could be to the homeless. She knew.
Since her far-off childhood, she had never called a pl