ng, the water-bugs around the pipes in the bath-room. It
was this consciousness of myself that made many of the hardships
bearable--this and the grim determination not to give up.

I told the lady in charge of the intelligence office where I first
applied that I was willing to try anything, but thought I was best
suited as a mother's-helper, or a sort of governess. She shrugged when I
told her I had no reference, but occasionally she gave me an opportunity
for an interview.

There was something about me that, lacking a reference, impressed my
would-be employers unfavorably; possibly it was the modish cut of the
hundred-dollar spring suit I wore, or the shape of my hat. Anyhow, they
all decided against me. If I had persisted long enough, I might have
found some sort of place, but on the fourth or fifth day of my ordeal in
intelligence offices, something happened.

I was sitting with the rest of my unemployed sisters in the little inner
room provided for us off the main office, when I glanced through the
door to see Henrietta Morgan and her mother. I looked hastily away. Here
I had been avoiding Fifth Avenue and the region of shops, for fear some
of my old friends about New York (and I have many) might run across me,
and stupidly I had walked into the very place infested by them. I
accomplished my escape easily enough. Naturally Mrs. Morgan wasn't
looking for me in such a place, but I didn't take the chance again.

I was lonely and discouraged many times during that first bitter summer
of mine in New York. I felt no charity for Edith, no forgiveness for
Tom. I hadn't wanted to leave home--not really--I hadn't sought an
experience like this. They had forced me to it. If only Tom hadn't
treated me like a naughty child! If only Bob--oh if _only_ Bob--(no,
there were some things I could not dwell upon. It was wiser not to).
Some pains are dull and steady. One can endure them and smile. Others
recur at intervals, occasioned by some unimportant detail like a man on
the street selling roasted chestnuts, which reminds one of saffron woods
in late October. Such pain is like the stab of a sharp stiletto.

Mine is the same old story of hope and despair, of periods of courage
occasioned by opportunities that flickered for a while and went out. I
was not utterly without employment. The first three dollars I earned at
directing envelopes in a department store made me happy for a
fortnight. It was a distinct triumph. I felt as if I