a long story
short, I got Mrs. Mandel to take 'em in hand--the old lady as well as
the girls. She was a born lady, and always lived like one till she saw
Mandel; and that something academic that killed her for a writer was
just the very thing for them. She knows the world well enough to know
just how much polish they can take on, and she don't try to put on a bit
more. See?"

"Yes, I can see," said Mrs. March.

"Well, she took hold at once, as ready as a hospital-trained nurse; and
there ain't anything readier on this planet. She runs the whole concern,
socially and economically, takes all the care of housekeeping off the
old lady's hands, and goes round with the girls. By-the-bye, I'm going
to take my meals at your widow's, March, and Conrad's going to have his
lunch there. I'm sick of browsing about."

"Mr. March's widow?" said his wife, looking at him with provisional
severity.

"I have no widow, Isabel," he said, "and never expect to have, till I
leave you in the enjoyment of my life-insurance. I suppose Fulkerson
means the lady with the daughter who wanted to take us to board."

"Oh yes. How are they getting on, I do wonder?" Mrs. March asked of
Fulkerson.

"Well, they've got one family to board; but it's a small one. I guess
they'll pull through. They didn't want to take any day boarders at
first, the widow said; I guess they have had to come to it."

"Poor things!" sighed Mrs. March. "I hope they'll go back to the
country."

"Well, I don't know. When you've once tasted New York--You wouldn't go
back to Boston, would you?"

"Instantly."

Fulkerson laughed out a tolerant incredulity.

X

Beaton lit his pipe when he found himself in his room, and sat down
before the dull fire in his grate to think. It struck him there was
a dull fire in his heart a great deal like it; and he worked out a
fanciful analogy with the coals, still alive, and the ashes creeping
over them, and the dead clay and cinders. He felt sick of himself, sick
of his life and of all his works. He was angry with Fulkerson for having
got him into that art department of his, for having bought him up; and
he was bitter at fate because he had been obliged to use the money to
pay some pressing debts, and had not been able to return the check
his father had sent him. He pitied his poor old father; he ached with
compassion for him; and he set his teeth and snarled with contempt
through them for his own baseness. This was the kind of w