As Rose walked home she could hardly credit her good fortune. Six lessons a week at two dollars apiece would amount to twelve dollars, and leave her plenty of time to herself. Twelve dollars! and till now her weekly income, laboring all day, had been less than three dollars. "Addie," she said, after recounting her success to her sister, "do you know I feel quite like a young lady of fortune? I am almost afraid that it is all a dream, and that I shall wake up some day and find myself back again at Mrs. Flanagan's." "Let us enjoy it as long as it lasts, Rose," said Adeline. "I wish I could help. I don't like to have the whole family leaning on you." Adeline had her wish. Three days later Miss Wilmot came in with two little girls. "They want to take lessons in drawing," she said. "They have a taste, but their father is a mechanic, and they have been unable to gratify it. Now, I have been thinking that I will let you pay the rent by instructing them, and leave your sister her whole time to teach music." "I should like nothing better," said Adeline, brightening up. "Then they will begin at once." Adeline was fond of children, and found instruction in her favorite accomplishment no task, but a positive pleasure. "I shall not be a burden upon you, Rose, any longer," she said, cheerfully. "I should think not. If you pay the rent, it will be no light help. I shall insist on contributing my share, and will pay you fifteen dollars a month to make matters even." Adeline protested, but Rose was firm. Her invalid sister's spirits were raised, and life was no longer monotonous, now that she felt herself of some use in the world. "Do you know, Rose," she said, "I don't think I should be happier if our share of grandfather's money had come to us, as we once anticipated." CHAPTER XXI. THE COLLAPSE OF AN ELDERLY DUDE. The remarkable change that had taken place in the fortunes of Rose Beaufort interfered seriously with the plans of a person who has thus far only been incidentally mentioned--the superintendent of the work department of Nicholas Walton's large clothing store. Hugh Parkinson was a man no longer young. If not forty, he looked that age. Moreover, his natural attractions, which were very scanty, had not been increased by the passage of time. His hair, which was of a reddish tinge, was carefully combed up from the side to cover the rather extensive vacancy for which time and irregular hours were responsible; but to look young was a problem which he had not been able to compass. He did what he could, in the way of dress, to make up for the ravages of time. He always got his clothes made by a fashionable Broadway tailor, and in the street he looked like an elderly "dude," and thus far more ridiculous than the younger specimens of this class.