And he did what he said he would do. He found a place in some old women's home for that aged demon, and one day he made me go with him to see her. Maybe it was the different dress and the different surroundings, but, it seemed to me, her eyes were not as they were in the low restaurant. The hand that wore the thin gold ring was clean in its pitiful shrunkenness. The creature looked neither hunted nor hunting. She was but an old woman going to the grave so near her, and going, I could not but imagine, to find the one who had given her that gold circlet some half century ago. I rather fancied Harlson's fad. As for him, when I told him so, he only said: "Oh, of course. Peter told the third assistant bookkeeper to credit Harlson with such or such an amount." And he added; "If those people don't take good care of that old woman there'll be a new superintendent." But they took good care of her. This is lugging in an incident at great length as an illustration, but I know of no other way to explain how Harlson so expressed himself when I asked him how he knew whether the woman of whom he had been talking was married or not. He felt confident enough. "Well, what is she like? Can't you describe her? Has she seared your eyes with her loveliness?" "She hasn't seared my eyes. She has only opened them. Listen to me, you thing of mud! She is just a little brown streak." "That's an odd description of a woman." "It's the correct one, though. She's just a little brown streak of a thing." "Well, I've heard of a man in love with a dream, and in love with a shadow, but never before did I hear of one infatuated with a streak. Where did you meet this creature? Have you known her long?" "Only for a month or so, and but slightly. We have not met half a dozen times. It was only tonight, you see, that I began to know her well. We talked together, and I got a glimpse of her real self--of her slender little body, of her earthly tenement, of course, I had an idea before. She is a lissom thing, with eyes like wells, and with a way to her which conveys the idea of wisdom without wickedness, and which makes a man wish he were not what he is, and were more fitted to associate with her." "That's one good effect, anyhow. I don't know of any man who more needed to meet such a woman. How long do you expect this influence to last?" "Longer than one of your good resolutions, my son; as long as she will have anything to do with me." "Does this brown streak of a saint live in the city? Is her shrine easy of access? What are you going to do about it?" "She's not a saint; she's a piquant, cultivated woman; but she is different, somehow, from any other I've ever met." "You've met a good many, my boy." His face fell a little. "Yes," he said, "and I almost wish it were different; but the past is not all there is of being. There's a heap of comfort in that."