heir deeps, and their lashes and the brows above them. He told her of
the strange rhythm of her musical form when she walked or danced or
leaned upon the arm of her chair.

He dared not look at her lest he lose his remembrance of them; but he
heard her laughing, softly at first, then with pride and wild triumph.
And she crushed his hand in hers and kissed it, murmuring: "God bless
you! God bless you!"

For even in poverty it is sweet to know that once we were rich.

THE GHOSTLY COUNSELORS

I

In a little hall bedroom in a big city lay a little woman in a big
trouble. She had taken the room under an assumed name, and a visitor had
come to her there--to little her in the big city, from the bigger
unknown.

She had taken the room as "Mrs. Emerton." The landlady, Mrs. Rotch, had
had her doubts. But then she was liberal-minded--folks had to be in that
street. Still, she made it an invariable rule that "no visitors was
never allowed in rooms," a parlor being kept for the purpose up to ten
o'clock, when the landlady went to bed in it, "her having to have her
sleep as well as anybody."

But, in spite of the rules, a visitor had come to "Mrs. Emerton's"
room--a very, very young man. His only name as yet was "the Baby." She
dared not give the young man his father's name, for then people would
know, and she had come to the city to keep people from knowing. She had
come to the wicked city from the sweet, wholesome country, where,
according to fiction, there is no evil, but where, according to fact,
people are still people and moonlight is still madness. In the country,
love could be concealed but not its consequence.

Her coadjutor in the ceremony of summoning this little spirit from the
vasty deep had not followed her to the city where the miracle was
achieved. He was poor, and his parents would have been brokenhearted; his
employer in the village would have taken away his seven-dollar-a-week job.

So the boy sent the girl to town alone, with what money he had saved up
and what little he could borrow; and he stayed in the village to earn
more.

The girl's name was Lightfoot--Hilda Lightfoot--a curiously prophetic
name for her progress in the primrose path, though she had gone
heavy-footed enough afterward. And now she could hardly walk at all.

Hilda Lightfoot had come to the city in no mood to enjoy its
frivolities, and with no means. She had climbed the four flights to her
room a few days ago for the last t