to me, Dick," Nancy said, "and I appreciate every
word you've been saying. I'd take your money, not for myself, but for
the things I'm doing, if I needed it, but I don't, you know." She
looked out into the coolness of the evening, lulled by the transition
to a region of so much airiness and space, soothed by the soft motion,
and the presence of a friend who loved her. The conversation in which
she was engaged suddenly became trivial and unimportant to her. She
was very tired, and she found herself beginning to rest and relax. "I
don't need it," she repeated vaguely. "I've got plenty of money of my
own. Over a million, Billy says now. Uncle Elijah left it to me. I
didn't want him to, but perhaps it was all for the best." She put her
head back against the cushions and shut her eyes. "I'm terribly
sleepy," she said, "and as for the Inn--that's making money, too, you
know. Last month we cleared more than two hundred dollars."

And Dick saying nothing, but continuing to stare into space--the
panoramic space fleeting rhythmically by the car window,--she let
herself gradually slip into the depths of sudden drowsiness that had
overtaken her.

CHAPTER XX

HITTY

Hitty put on her bonnet--she had worn widow's weeds for twenty-five
years--and went out into the morning. She finally succeeded in
boarding a south-bound Sixth Avenue car,--though since it was her
habit to ignore the near side stop regulation, she always had
considerable trouble in getting on any car,--and in seating herself
bolt upright on the lengthwise seat, her black gloved hands folded
indomitably before her.

At Fourth Street she descended and made her way east to the square,
and thence to the top floor of the studio building to which Collier
Pratt had taken his little daughter on the memorable occasion when he
had plucked her from her warm nest of blankets and led her, sleepy and
shivering, into the cold of the night. She had been at some pains to
secure the address without taking Nancy into her confidence.

She took each creaking stair with a snort of disgust, and reaching the
battered door with Collier Pratt's visiting card tacked on the smeary
panel on a level with her eye, she knocked sharply, and scorning to
wait for a reply, turned the knob and walked in.

Collier Pratt was making coffee on a small spirit lamp, set on the
wash-stand, which was decorously concealed during the more formal
hours of the day behind a soft colored Japanese screen