Whether Mr. Dalton suspected the flight and reception of these little white-winged messengers of love was a matter of doubt to Editha. At all events they were none of them intercepted or tampered with, since she alone held the key to lock-box 1,004, and trusted no one else with it. She wondered often what the nature of Earle’s business abroad could be, and what great good he expected it to bring him if he was successful. She wondered if it was some case connected with the lords and nobles of that country, and by which some American descendant expected to be elevated to the nobility of the land. She built many a romance and castle in the air, but whether they would stand or fall she could not tell until her lover’s return. He did not mention business matters to her in his letters, and therefore she had no means of knowing whether he was meeting with success or not. * * * * * “Please, miss, give me a dime, my father is dying and we’ve neither fire nor bread.” These were the plaintive words which greeted Editha’s ears one cold, threatening evening, as she was hurrying to reach the shelter of her home before the storm should overtake her. She had been out, as usual, to recite her German and French, and on returning had stopped to do a little shopping, and it had begun to grow dark before she was through. In passing through a narrow alley to shorten the distance and catch a car, the above words had fallen upon her ears. No bread, no fire this cold, dismal night, she thought, with a shudder, as a blue, emaciated hand was extended to receive the pittance craved. Editha involuntarily stopped and turned toward the voice, and found herself face to face with a young girl of about fourteen years of age. She was tall for her age, and painfully thin, and very scantily clad. A thin and tattered shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and one end also served for a covering for her head. Her stockings were nothing but a covering to hide the nakedness of her limbs, while through the gaping shoes, which had never been mates, Editha could plainly see her cold and purple toes. The sad face was blue and pinched, with such a hungry, appealing look in the large, dark eyes that it went straight to Miss Dalton’s heart. For an instant, as she stood there beside the forlorn little waif, her own rich furs and elegant velvet cloak, with its costly trimmings, brushing that scantily-clad figure, a feeling of shame and self-condemnation rushed over her that so much should be lavished upon herself while one of Christ’s poor was in want and suffering so near. “How cold you look, my poor child! Why don’t you go home, instead of staying here in the dismal street?” she asked, pityingly. The girl shivered. “We haven’t got any fire at home. If some one would only give me a dime!” she pleaded. “No fire on this wretched day?” Editha repeated, sorrowfully.