There he heard the old, familiar thumper-thumper-thumper-thumper of Annie Moss’ sewing machine, going on as he had heard it all the time he had lived in the next room, as he had heard it on the evening he had taken leave of her, as if it had never stopped during the three weeks of his absence. “Oh, these poor working women!” he thought. “How patient they are, at their monotonous work! What a lesson it is to others.” He rapped at the door. “Well! Who is it?” inquired the pleasant voice, as the sound of the machine stopped. “It is I, Annie,” he answered. Although she was old enough to be his mother, he had got to calling her “Annie,” because everybody else did, so far as he knew—Adler and Adler’s wife and their children, all called Mrs. Moss Annie. The name seemed to suit the fair, gentle, helpful woman. “Oh, Mr. William, I am so glad that you have come back,” she said, as she opened the door. “And I am very glad to see you. I hope you are well?” “Oh, very well, thank you, Mr. William. I am always well, you know.” “And happy?” “Yes, and happy.” “You deserve to be so.” “I don’t know that I do. I hope you left your mother well, Mr. William.” Harcourt sighed. “As well as most women are at her advanced age. My dear mother is nearer eighty than seventy, you must know.” “Then so much nearer to her eternal youth,” sweetly and solemnly replied Annie Moss. “Yes,” assented Harcourt, in a low tone, “that is all she has to comfort her now—the prospect of the future better life.” “Many young people, as well as the aged, have nothing else to hope for.” “That is indeed true, Annie; but I do not know how so good and happy a woman as yourself should have found it out,” said Harcourt. “Come in, Mr. William, and sit down and rest yourself, while I make a cup of tea that will refresh you after your journey.” “No, thank you. Not now. I only came to see how you are, and to get my key,” replied the young man. “But your room has been shut up, and without a fire in it for nearly a month, and though I have aired it two or three times a week I know it is cold and damp, and you are just off a long journey. You had better come in, and let me get you a cup of tea, and after you have taken it you will feel better able to tackle with a damp room and a cold hearth. Come in, now. Why not? Are we not all brethren and sisters?” “Oh! my dear Annie, you are really too good for this world,” said Harcourt, very stupidly, it must be admitted, for he even thought so himself, yet in perfect good faith. “Nonsense! There are no provisions laid up in your room, either, and I’d like to know what you expect to do about supper at this time of night, when all the stores are closed?” Harcourt smiled, and submitted. Although Annie Moss called her neighbor so formally “Mr. William,” she really considered him as something like a foster son.