"What else is there to put?" Patience raised her head and looked at the girl; then lowered her eyes, and went on tracing the lines on the newspaper. "Oh, yes, I know; I understand more than you think. I'm a hard old woman--and you're a girl, with all the world calling to you. You hear the beat of hundreds of feet all marching on the road you'd like to travel; don't you hear the beat of the feet sometimes?" "Sometimes," replied Moira, lowering her eyes. "I know you do. And I'm glad to forget that the feet are marching at all; glad to think that if they march my way, it'll only be perhaps over my grave. I've done with it, and I've thought sometimes that you could be done with it, too." Moira stretched a hand across the table, and touched the hand of the woman. "I'm not ungrateful--and we lead our quiet lives here," she said. "I know that," replied Patience sharply. "But I don't mean that anyone else shall know that; I've got my pride--more than most folk. Who's Alice, if it comes to that, that she should be taken about, and drive in her carriage--and all that? If they took one girl--didn't I take the other; me that they looked on as a servant? I'll soon show 'em." "You wouldn't show what wasn't true, dear?" whispered Moira. "Yes--I would," was the surprising answer, "and not think twice about it. Who's to know?" "I wouldn't do it," said Moira. "You'll only be sorry afterwards." "Shall I? You don't know me," she retorted. "My pride'll keep me from ever being sorry. Now for it!" Moira leaned her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her clasped hands, and watched. A slight flush of excitement had grown in the white face of Patience; her lips were set in grim determination as she poised the pen, and waited before setting down in black and white what was in her mind. It seemed difficult of expression; after a moment she raised her eyes hopelessly to the girl. "I don't know how to begin," she muttered, with a glance at the door, as though fearful of being overheard. "I thought you'd find it difficult," was the reply. "Why not say at once that we drive every morning until luncheon; pay calls in the afternoon; are never to be found at home in the evening? If you want imagination----Why, what are you writing?" The pen was jerking rapidly over the paper, and Patience was saying the words aloud as she wrote. "Dear Madam,--I have been meaning to write to you for a long time--but London life takes up so much of my time--and Moira--'is it one "r," Moira?'--is always out and about--when not with me, then with some young companion." She glanced up half shyly at Moira, who was watching. "Can't you spell 'companion'?" asked Moira demurely.