There must have been some passionate energy left in my voice at least, for the woman lifted her thick eyebrows over the rim of her spectacles. "H'm--let's talk things over." She drew up a chair in front of me. "I won't light up yet, it's so hot. I guess we 'll get a tempest 'fore long." She sat down, placing her hands on her knees and leaning forward to look more closely at my face. I seemed to see her through a fog, and passed my hand across my eyes to wipe it away. "There 's no use beating 'round the bush when it comes to business," she said bluntly but kindly; "I 've got to ask you some pretty plain questions; the parties in this case are awful particular." "Yes." I answered with effort. The fog was still before my eyes. "You see what it says." She began to read the advertisement slowly: "'Wanted: A young girl of good parentage, strong, and country raised, for companion and assistant to an elderly Scotchwoman on a farm in Canada, Province of Quebec. Must have had a common school education. Apply at No. 8 V---- Court, New York City.' You say you 've been in St. Luke's?" "Yes." "Did you know the one they call Doctor Rugvie there? He 's the great surgeon." "No, I don't know him; but I 've heard so much of him. He was pointed out to me once when I was getting better." "Well, by good rights you ought to be applying for this place to him." "To him?" I asked in surprise. I could n't make this fact rhyme in connection with this woman and Canada. "Yes, to him; I'm only a go-between he trusts. He 's in Europe now and is n't coming home till late this year, so he left this with me," she indicated the advertisement, "and told me not to put it in till a week ago. I ain't had many applications. Folks in this city don't take to going off to a farm in Canada, and those I 've had would n't have suited. But, anyway, Doctor Rugvie is reference for this place that's advertised, and I guess he 's good enough for anybody. I thought I 'd tell you this to relieve your mind. 'T ain't every girl would come down here to this hole looking for a place.-- Where was you born?" "Here in New York, but I have lived most of my life in the country, northern New England, just this side of the Canada line. I 've been here seven years, five in the Public Library; that's my reference." "How old are you?" "Twenty-six next December--the third." "I would n't have thought it. Mother living?" "No; she died when I was born." "Any father?" "I--I don't know whether my father is living or not." I began to wish I had n't come here to be questioned like this; yet I knew the woman was asking only what was necessary in the circumstances. I feared my answers would seal my fate as an applicant. "What was your father's name?" "I don't know." Again I caught the sound of that strange flutter in my voice. "I never knew my father." "Humph! Then your mother wasn't married, I take it."