ause for
apprehension until the last twenty-four hours; and Marjorie Schuyler
had left for San Francisco--on the way to China. She was to be gone
indefinitely.

"The heathen idols and the laundrymen are welcome to her," growled
Patsy, maliciously. "If they'd only fix her with the evil eye, or
wish such a homesickness and lovesickness on her that 'twould last
for a year and a day, I'd forgive her for what she's made me wish on
myself."

Having relieved her mind somewhat, she was able to attend to the
business of the letter with less inward discomfort. The letter was
written to George Travis, already known as the manager of Miss St.
Regis. He was the head of a well-known theatrical managerial firm in
New York, and an old friend and well-wisher of Patsy's. In it she
explained, partly, her continued sojourn in America, and frankly
confessed to her financial needs. If he had anything anywhere that
she could do until the fall bookings with her own company, she would
be most humbly grateful. He might address her at Arden; she had great
hopes of reaching there--some day. There was a postscript added in
good, pure Donegal:

And don't ye be afeared of hurting my pride by offering
anything too small. Just at present I'm like old Granny
Donoghue's lean pig--hungry for scrapings.

As she sealed the envelope a shadow fell athwart the counter. Patsy
looked up to find the tinker peering at her sharply.

"You look clean tuckered out," he announced, baldly; then he laid a
coaxing hand on her arm. "I want you to come along with me. Will you,
lass? I've found a place for you--a nice place. I've been talkin' to
Joseph's mother, an' she's goin' to look after you for the night."

Patsy's face crinkled up all over; the tinker could not have
told--even if he had been in possession of all his senses--whether
she was going to laugh or cry. As it turned out, she did neither; she
just sighed, a tired, contented little sigh, slipping off the stool
and dropping the letter into the post-box.

When she faced the tinker again her eyes were misty, and for all her
courage she could not keep the quivering from her lips. She reached
up impulsive, trusting hands to his shoulders: "Lad--lad--how were ye
ever guessing that I'd reached the end o' my wits and was needing
some one to think for me? Holy Saint Michael! but won't I be mortial
glad to be feeling a respectable, Lebanon feather-bed under me!"

* * * *