Athalie was never ill. The nearest she came to it was a dull feeling of languor in early spring. But it did not even verge on either resentment or despondency. In winter it was better. She had learned to accept with philosophy the noises of the noisiest of cities. Even, perhaps, she rather liked them, or at least, on her two weeks' vacation in the country, she found, to her surprise, that she missed the accustomed and incessant noises of New York. Her real hardships were two; poverty and loneliness. The combined earnings of herself and her sisters did not allow them a better ventilated, or more comfortable apartment than the grimy one they lived in. Nor did their earnings permit them more or better clothing and food. As for loneliness, she had, of course, her sisters. But healthy, imaginative, ardent youth requires more than sisters,--more even than feminine friends, of which Athalie had a few. What she needed, as all girls need, were acquaintances and friends among men of her own age. And she had none--that is, no friends. Which is the usual fate of any business girl who keeps up such education and cultivation as she possesses, and attempts to add to it and to improve her quality. Because the men of her social and business level are vastly inferior to the women,--inferior in manners, cultivation, intelligence, quality--which seems almost to make their usually excellent morals peculiarly offensive. That was why Athalie knew loneliness. Doris, recently, had met a few idle men of cultivated and fashionable antecedents. Catharine, that very evening, was evidently going to meet a man of that sort for the first time in her career. As for Athalie, she had had no opportunity to meet any man she cared to cultivate since she had last talked with C. Bailey, Jr., on the platform of the Sixth Avenue Elevated;--and that was now nearly four years ago. * * * * * Braiding up her hair she sat gazing at herself in the mirror while her detached thoughts drifted almost anywhere--back to Spring Pond and the Hotel Greensleeve, back to her mother, to the child cross-legged on the floor,--back to her father, and how he sat there dead in his leather chair;--back to the bar, and the red gleam of the stove, and a boy and girl in earnest conversation there in the semi-darkness, eating peach turnovers-- She turned her head, leisurely: the electric bell had sounded twice before she realised that she ought to pull the wire which opened the street door below. So she got up, pulled the wire, and then sauntered out into the sitting-room and set the door ajar, not worrying about her somewhat intimate costume because it was too late for tradesmen, and there was nobody else to call on her or on her sisters excepting other girls known to them all.