The advertisement was a Canadian "want", and in reading it an overpowering longing came upon me to see something of the spaciousness of that other country, to breathe its air that blows over the northern snow-fields. I had acted on an impulse in deciding to answer it, but that impulse was only the precipitation of long-unuttered and unfilled desires. I was realizing this as I made my way eastward into one of the former Trinity tenement districts. I found the flag-paved court upon which the shadows were already falling. It was not an easily discoverable spot, and I was a little in doubt as to entering and inquiring further; I didn't like its look. I took out the advertisement; yes, this was the place: "No. 8 V---- Court." "Don't back down now," I said to myself by way of encouragement and, entering, rang the bell of an old-fashioned house with low stoop and faded green blinds close shut in sharp contrast to the gaping ones adjoining. The openly neglected aspect of its neighbors was wanting, as was, in fact, any indication of its character. Ordinarily I would have shunned such a locality. The door was opened by a woman apparently fifty. Her strong deeply-lined face I trusted at once. "What do you want?" The voice was business-like, neither repellent nor inviting. "I 've come in answer to this," I said, holding out the clipping. The woman took it. "You come in a minute, till I get my glasses." She led the way through a long, unlighted hall into a back room where the windows were open. "You set right down there," she said, pushing me gently into a rocking-chair and pressing a palm-leaf fan into my hand, "for you look 'bout ready to drop." She spoke the truth; I was. The sickening breathlessness of the air, nine hours of indoor work, and little eaten all day for lack of appetite, suddenly took what strength I had when I started out. As the woman stood by the window reading the slip in the fading light, my eyes never left her face. It seemed to me--and strangely, too, for I have always felt my independence of others' personal help--that my life itself was about to depend on her answer. "Yes, this is the place to apply; but now the first thing I want to know is how you come to think you 'd fit this place? You don't look strong." "Oh, yes, I am;" I spoke hurriedly, as if a heavy pressure that was gradually making itself felt on my chest were forcing out the words; "but I haven't been out of the hospital very long--" "What hospital?" "St. Luke's." "What was the matter with you?" "Typhoid pneumonia with pleurisy." "How long was you there?" "Ten weeks, to the first of July; I've been at work since--but I want to get away from here where I can breathe; if I don't I shall die." There was a queer flutter in my voice. I could hear it. The woman noticed it. "Ain't you well?" "Oh, yes, I am, and want work--but away from here."