He remodelled the house. With what curious, painful feelings did he watch its dismantlement, walk into that gloomy room Minnie had so long inhabited and see for the first time its poverty. All the furniture was left there; doubtless it belonged to the creditors, but none of them troubled to claim it. All old, shabby, ugly. There were lots of closets, cupboards, a big attic, filled with astounding rubbish, clothes, old papers, broken furniture, pictures. Whatever was worth saving, Mr. Petersen removed to his own house, the rest he burned in a sort of sacrificial bonfire. He saw the sagging old bed, the little rocking chair, the lame bureau from Minnie’s room go up in smoke and all the while he thought with profound melancholy of the brisk, pleasant little woman. He sighed over her, wished with all his heart that he could find her again and put her into his own orderly and comfortable home. Solemnly he led the silly old horse, more provoking than ever in its senility, back to his own stable, while his housekeeper carried the cats. The house, because of its size, was destined for a boarding-house. That too put him in mind of intrepid Minnie and her venture. “Poor girl!” he thought. “A brave little soul! What’s become of her, I wonder?” II This day he was not thinking about her; he was busy in his office, dictating letters to his spinster stenographer, the sound of his drawling, hesitating voice filling the little room. A window was open to let in the sweet May air, and a breeze ruffled his hair. As usual he was in his shirt sleeves. The door was open, and in she came; said, gently: “Mr. Petersen!” “Miss Minnie!” he cried, jumping up, and according to his custom, hurrying into his respectable dark coat. “Well, well, Miss Minnie!” She shook her head. “Mrs. Naylor,” she corrected him, with a smile; the very same pleasant, kindly smile. He stared at her, smiling himself, and shaking his head. “Well, well!” he repeated. She hadn’t changed much; she was stouter and a trifle more serious, that was all. He observed that she was in mourning, wearing a black blouse and skirt somewhat like his housekeeper but dowdier and cheaper. Nevertheless, she didn’t look _poor_; somehow you didn’t pity her. “Mrs. Naylor,” he repeated. “I’m a widow,” she said, simply. He answered, in very much the same simple and friendly way-- “I’m sorry.” Then she said, smiling again, but with a hint of melancholy: “I’ve come to you for advice again. I look on you as an old friend, Mr. Petersen.” “I am!” he assured her. “I know it!” He held out a huge hand. “Sit down,” he said. “Miss Layne, you shall have a holiday in honour of Mrs. Naylor’s return.” The spinster stenographer, disapproving, suspicious, with a comically false smile, put on a pinched little jacket and a hat and jerked out, nodding in duty bound to this odious widow. “Now!” said Mr. Petersen. Without too much emphasis, in just the quiet, well-bred way he admired, she told him her little story.