For a long time the weeping was sustained and dreary. It never ceased save when Mrs. Seeley came back to give Felicia instructions about her work, but usually after her footfalls had clattered down the stairway the crying would begin again, very softly. Frequently Felicia could hear the pad, pad, pad of stockinged feet. She knew that whenever the crying stopped the grieving one walked to and fro restlessly. After a longer interval of silence than usual Felicia became aware that Babiche was sniffing excitably. The nervous sniff that had always characterized the wee doggies on days when the carbolic water was ready for the rinsing. Felicia wrinkled her own nose tentatively. Presently she got up and opened the door to the next room. It was empty. But adjoining it was an untidy bathroom with a dark wainscoting and a grimy enameled tub and standing over near the uncurtained window was a boyish figure, wrapped in a man's overcoat, with a bottle in her hand. She had wept so long, poor girl, that Felicia couldn't tell very much about how she really looked, except that it seemed to her she had never seen any one so unhappy. Felicia stood there, an absurdly dowdy figure, Babiche clasped in her arm, and smiled timorously. "Where is your dog?" she asked sweetly. "What dog?" demanded a sulky voice. "The dog you were going to wash--" Felicia's voice was casual. "With the 'scarbolic.'" "I wasn't--trying to wash any dog--" the girl breathed dully. Felicia moved quickly, she took the bottle from the girl's hand. "Then I wish you'd lend me your--'scarbolic,'" she entreated sweetly, "Babiche really needs a bath." The youthful sufferer stared from her tear-stained eyes, stared with all her might at the shabby, frumpy, middle-aged looking little person who had taken the bottle from her hand. "I can't stand it--" she sobbed bitterly, "I've got to quit--you don't know how I feel--I feel as if--" "When you feel that way," interrupted Felicia quietly, "you mustn't have a 'scarbolic' bottle, that's a thing that will make you go dead--" "It's my own business if I do--I'd rather be dead than the way I am--" she stretched out her arms passionately, "I haven't room to breathe! I did have that top floor front you know, it was a peach of a place to work. But she rented it to a chauffeur and put me in this hole--oh, oh, when all I asked was room for my model stand and room for my clay --when all I wanted was room for Pandora--you can't know how I feel--"