It was growing late. The Street, which mistrusted night air, even on a hot summer evening, was closing its windows. Reginald, having eaten his fill, had cuddled in the warm hollow of Sidney's lap, and slept. By shifting his position, the man was able to see the girl's face. Very lovely it was, he thought. Very pure, almost radiant--and young. From the middle age of his almost thirty years, she was a child. There had been a boy in the shadows when he came up the Street. Of course there would be a boy--a nice, clear-eyed chap-- Sidney was looking at the moon. With that dreamer's part of her that she had inherited from her dead and gone father, she was quietly worshiping the night. But her busy brain was working, too,--the practical brain that she had got from her mother's side. “What about your washing?” she inquired unexpectedly. K. Le Moyne, who had built a wall between himself and the world, had already married her to the youth of the shadows, and was feeling an odd sense of loss. “Washing?” “I suppose you've been sending things to the laundry, and--what do you do about your stockings?” “Buy cheap ones and throw 'em away when they're worn out.” There seemed to be no reserve with this surprising young person. “And buttons?” “Use safety-pins. When they're closed one can button over them as well as--” “I think,” said Sidney, “that it is quite time some one took a little care of you. If you will give Katie, our maid, twenty-five cents a week, she'll do your washing and not tear your things to ribbons. And I'll mend them.” Sheer stupefaction was K. Le Moyne's. After a moment:-- “You're really rather wonderful, Miss Page. Here am I, lodged, fed, washed, ironed, and mended for seven dollars and seventy-five cents a week!” “I hope,” said Sidney severely, “that you'll put what you save in the bank.” He was still somewhat dazed when he went up the narrow staircase to his swept and garnished room. Never, in all of a life that had been active,--until recently,--had he been so conscious of friendliness and kindly interest. He expanded under it. Some of the tired lines left his face. Under the gas chandelier, he straightened and threw out his arms. Then he reached down into his coat pocket and drew out a wide-awake and suspicious Reginald. “Good-night, Reggie!” he said. “Good-night, old top!” He hardly recognized his own voice. It was quite cheerful, although the little room was hot, and although, when he stood, he had a perilous feeling that the ceiling was close above. He deposited Reginald carefully on the floor in front of the bureau, and the squirrel, after eyeing him, retreated to its nest.