“Of course you know what is best,” he said irresolutely. “And I know I've got no business shifting my responsibilities on you. By the way, can't I help you with some of this stuff? You look about done for to-night.” “Done for?” Mr. Sequin smiled ironically, and ran his fingers through his scant gray hair. “Why, Don, I'd change places with any old corpse to-night, just for a chance to lie down in a quiet corner and stop thinking! No, there's nothing you can do. There's nothing anybody can do. Good night; close the door as you go out, and leave word downstairs if I am called over the 'phone to say I am not here.” All things considered it is small wonder that Donald passed as little time as possible at Angora Heights. The time he was not occupied with his trial hung heavy on his hands. Distrustful of his friends, sensitive to criticism, and dreading the humiliating ordeal to come, he spent one of the most wretched months of his life. He tried to write, but fancy fled before the glare of the actual. The only place where he found temporary peace was under the roof of the grim-looking house in College Street. From the first Doctor Queerington had championed his cause, and urged upon him his hospitality. To be sure the Doctor's hospitality usually began and ended with his welcome, after which he would take himself off to the study, and leave his guest to the care of the family. At such times Miss Lady invariably went with him. In fact, Donald had never seen her alone since the night of his arrival, and the very fact that she seldom remained down-stairs in the evenings, made his conscience lighter about lingering in her vicinity. Mrs. Ivy was the first to comment on his frequent visits. She confided to Mrs. Sequin that she was afraid he was getting interested in Connie Queerington, and that somebody ought to tell him that Connie had been in love with dear Gerald for years and years. An impartial observer might have expressed a less confident opinion concerning the object of Miss Connie's affections. Noah Wicker, for instance, while not exactly an impartial observer, had arrived at quite a different conclusion. “You watch the way she looks at Don,” he said darkly to Miss Lady on one occasion. Miss Lady laughed, “Oh! Connie's like the Last Duchess, she likes whate'er she looks on, and her looks go everywhere.” “Yes, but this is different. Has she ever said anything to you about him?” “Mercy, yes, Connie talks to be about all the boys.” “Does she talk about me?” Noah's eyes were as wistful as a dog's. For a second Miss Lady hesitated, then she compromised with truth and said, “yes.” She did not add that Connie was particularly voluble on the subject of his hair, and the creak of his boots and his apparent genius for ubiquity. “Do you know what I'd do if I were you, Noah?” she said. “I'd have me a new suit of clothes made.” “Why, these are new!”