"I jus' misremember." Chelda drew a dollar bill from her purse, rolled it up and tucked it between some dishes on the dresser. Rebecca's thick lips moved greedily. "I'll tell you all I know, miss, but I ain't got no more memory nor a badger. She was a German an' her hair was so light it was mos' white. She was pretty, too, and w'en her husban' used to stay out late she'd cry an' talk, but I never heard what she said; but I knew she was good, an' if she cried he mus' be bad." "Have you told Mrs. Mercer this?" "Law, no. I asked her what her name was before marriage, an' she said somethin' different. Lan--Lan--" "Lancaster?" "That's it; now the name of my folkses was different. Jones or James or some such, so it ain't the same 'ceptin' her mother had a sister, an' she says she hadn't." "Probably it is a case of casual resemblance." "Prob'ly, miss." "I don't think Mrs. Mercer's mother was a German." "Yes she were, miss, she tole me." "Indeed--oh, well, it is a coincidence, you had better stop pondering over it." "I guess I will, miss." "By the way, what was the address of that boarding-house?" "Persia Street. I misremember the number, but it's writ down in my Bible. I'll get it," and she hobbled up a back stairway. Chelda glanced once at the title-page of the shabby volume held open before her, and with an assumption of perfect indifference took the tray that Rebecca made ready for her, and went to Mr. Huntington's study. "Who is there?" he asked when she knocked. "Chelda," she replied, in a soft, low voice. He immediately threw open the door and presented to her his flushed face and burning eyes. "May I come in? I have brought you something to eat." "You are very kind," he said, but there was no gratitude in his tone. "We have missed you;--the table is nothing without you," she said, gently. "I could not go down," he muttered. She sat down, and with her whole soul in her dark eyes looked up at him. "You wished to avoid me." His silence was an answer in the affirmative. "Have you no pity for me? Do you think I have no shame? Who is there in your church that has your interest at heart as I have?" There was no one. Her love for him was unwomanly in its forwardness, yet it was sincere. "Come away from here," she said, pleadingly, "come with me. My aunt likes you. We can go where we will. You need never see this place again." He clenched his hands at her words, and his face, in his mortal struggle with himself, was more like the face of a beast than a man, yet she did not quail. "It disgusts me," she cried, springing to her feet and laying a hand on his quivering breast, "the way in which these uneducated people order you about. It almost makes me despise you. Are you willing to pass your life here? Can you be content to live in this poor way--these howling children surrounding you--in these stuffy rooms? You who are so, so--" and her head sank on his arm--"you who would become a palace."