When engaging a room at the Jane Leonard the clerk told me that guests were not allowed to keep their trunks in their rooms, and I thereupon congratulated myself on my trunks being in storage. On moving in, for in that “home” for working women guests engage rooms sight unseen, I wondered that the management had taken the trouble to formulate a rule against trunks. There was literally no place for even the smallest trunk unless it was swung from the ceiling—the bed being too low for even the thinnest of steamers. Besides a narrow cot the top of which was scarcely one foot above the floor, there was a small rocking-chair, a small table with one minute drawer, a narrow chiffonier with five shallow drawers, topped by a mirror narrow both ways. There was also a sash-curtain, a window-shade, a white cotton cover on the table and another on the chiffonier, a clothes-closet, and a face-towel so tiny I felt sure it would never grow up. Besides a brown door with a transom and a narrow window opening on a court only slightly wider than the door, my room consisted of four shiny yellow walls, a shiny white ceiling, and a shiny brown floor. After my first peer around my new quarters—because of the narrowness of the court and the height of the two buildings my window only admitted twilight—I took myself to task for being overcritical. Though I was paying two dollars and a quarter a week more than room and food had cost at Mrs. Brown’s, I would not have to do either cooking or dish-washing. Doubtless the meals would be better and more abundant than those I had prepared for myself. Then there were the piazzas, one on each floor, and the roof-garden, all overlooking the river, I continued, enumerating all the advantages of my new abiding-place. It would be so lovely after a hard day down-town to sit and watch the river until bedtime. Of course I must get another job on Monday; no use of loafing when our country needed every woman as well as every man. By that time my friend, a librarian who had lived in the Jane Leonard for several years, would return from her vacation, and I would have a companionable person to speak to—for weeks before leaving the rooming-house Molly was my only speaking acquaintance. Dinner that night did not come up to my expectations—my pet abominations, baked beans and a brown bread even worse than the concoction set before you three times a week in Boston. For in spite of my three years in a Massachusetts college, I never learned to enjoy its national dish, or two dishes. Before going to the Jane Leonard when this combination was put before me I had always looked the other way and waited for the next course. Here there was no next course. Baked beans and brown bread was dinner.