and satisfaction in viewing the
Greek profile and marcel wave of the most-worshipped movie star. As it
was, they were her ballast, her refuge, the leavening yeast in the soggy
dough of her existence. This man had wanted her to be his wife. She had
found favour in his eyes. She was certain that he still thought of her,
sometimes, and tenderly, regretfully, as she thought of him. It helped
her to live. Not only that, it made living possible.

A clock struck, a window slammed, or a street-noise smote her ear
sharply. Some sound started her out of her reverie. Rose jumped, stared
a moment at the letters in her lap, then hastily, almost shamefacedly,
sorted them (she knew each envelope by heart) tied them, placed them in
their box and bore them down the hail. There, mounting her chair, she
scrubbed the top shelf with her soapy rag, placed the box in its
corner, left the hall closet smelling of cleanliness, with never a hint
of lavender to betray its secret treasure.

Were Rose to die and go to Heaven, there to spend her days thumbing a
golden harp, her hands, by force of habit, would, drop harp-strings at
quarter to six, to begin laying a celestial and unspotted table-cloth
for supper. Habits as deeply rooted as that must hold, even in
after-life.

To-night's six-thirty stampede was noticeably subdued on the part of Pa
and Al. It had been a day of sudden and enervating heat, and the city
had done its worst to them. Pa's pink gills showed a hint of purple.
Al's flimsy silk shirt stuck to his back, and his glittering pompadour
was many degrees less submissive than was its wont. But Floss came in
late, breathless, and radiant, a large and significant paper bag in her
hand. Rose, in the kitchen, was transferring the smoking supper from pot
to platter. Pa, in the doorway of the sick woman's little room, had just
put his fourteen-year-old question with his usual assumption of
heartiness and cheer: "Well, well! And how's the old girl to-night? Feel
like you could get up and punish a little supper, eh?" Al engaged at the
telephone with some one whom he addressed proprietorially as Kid, was
deep in his plans for the evening's diversion. Upon this accustomed
scene Floss burst with havoc.

"Rose! Rose, did you iron my Georgette crepe? Listen! Guess what!" All
this as she was rushing down the hall, paper hat-bag still in hand.
"Guess who was in the store to-day!"

Rose, at the oven, turned a flushed and interested face toward Flos