ey she amassed, the less willing was she to spend. This nascent
avarice amused her, as a new trait in his character always amuses the
individual. She said to herself: "I am getting quite a miser," with the
assured reservation: "Of course I can stop being a miser whenever I feel
like stopping."

Sarah Gailey was lulling herself in a rocking-chair when Hilda entered,
and she neither regarded Hilda nor intermitted her see-saw. Her features
were drawn into a preoccupied expression of martyrdom, and in fact she
constantly suffered physical torture. She had three genuine
complaints--rheumatism, sciatica, and neuritis; they were all painful.
The latest and worst was the neuritis, which had attacked her in the
wrist, producing swollen joints that had to be fomented with hot water.
Sarah Gailey's life had indeed latterly developed into a continual
fomentation and a continual rocking. She was so taken up with the
elemental business of fomenting and of keeping warm, that she had no
energy left for other remedial treatments, such as distraction in the
open air. She sat for ever shawled, generally with heavy mittens on her
arms and wrists, and either fomenting or rocking, in the eternal
twilight of the basement bedroom. She eschewed aid--she could manage for
herself--and she did not encourage company, apparently preferring to be
alone with fate. In her easier hours, one hand resting on another and
both hugged close to her breast, rocking to and fro with an astounding
monotonous perseverance, she was like a mysterious Indian god in a
subterranean temple. Above her, unseen by her, floor beyond floor, the
life of the boarding-house functioned in the great holiday month of
August.

"I quite forgot about the make-up bed for Florrie," said Sarah Gailey
plaintively as she rocked. "Would you have time to see to it? Of course
she will have to be with Louisa."

"Very well," said Hilda curtly, and not quite hiding exasperation.

There were three reasons for her exasperation. In the first place, the
constant spectacle of Sarah Gailey's pain, and the effect of the pain on
Sarah's character, was exasperating--to Hilda as well as to George
Cannon. Both well knew that the watery-eyed, fretful spinster was a
victim, utterly innocent and utterly helpless, of destiny, and that she
merited nothing but patient sympathy; yet often the strain of
relationship with Sarah produced in them such a profound feeling of
annoyance that they positively resented