t it was, and Cyrilla took
a book and settled herself to reading. There was a vague something in
her manner--a change, an attitude toward Mildred--that disturbed
Mildred. Or, was that notion of a change merely the offspring of her
own somber mood? Seeing that Mrs. Brindley would not begin, she broke
the silence herself. Said she awkwardly:

"I've decided to move. In fact, I've got to move."

Cyrilla laid down the book and regarded her tranquilly. "Of course,"
said she. "I've already begun to arrange for someone else."

Mildred choked, and the tears welled into her eyes. She had not been
mistaken; Cyrilla had changed toward her. Now that she had no
prospects for a brilliant career, now that her money was gone, Cyrilla
had begun to--to be human. No doubt, in the course of that drive,
Cyrilla had discovered that Keith had no interest in her either.
Mildred beat down her emotion and was soon able to say in a voice as
unconcerned as Cyrilla's:

"I'll find a place to-morrow or next day, and go at once."

"I'll be sorry to lose you," said Mrs. Brindley, "but I agree with you
that you can't get settled any too soon."

"You don't happen to know of any cheap, good place?" said Mildred.

"If it's cheap, I don't think it's likely to be good--in New York,"
replied Cyrilla. "You'll have to put up with inconveniences--and
worse. I'd offer to help you find a place, but I think everything
self-reliant one does helps one to learn. Don't you?"

"Yes, indeed," assented Mildred. The thing was self-evidently true;
still she began to hate Cyrilla. This cold-hearted New York! How she
would grind down her heel when she got it on the neck of New York!
Friendship, love, helpfulness--what did New York and New-Yorkers know
of these things? "Or Hanging Rock, either," reflected she. What a
cold and lonely world!

"Have you been to see about a position?" inquired Cyrilla.

Mildred was thrown into confusion. "I can't go--for a--day or so," she
stammered. "The changeable weather has rather upset my throat. Nothing
serious, but I want to be at my best."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Brindley. Her direct gaze made Mildred
uncomfortable. She went on: "You're sure it's the weather?"

"What else could it be?" demanded Mildred with a latent resentment
whose interesting origin she did not pause to inquire into.

"Well, salad, or sauces, or desserts, or cafe au lait in the morning,
or candy, or tea," said Cyrilla. "Or it might be