"Oh, you poor, dear darling!" wrote Alice to Doris, "what an awfully inconvenient thing it is to have a conscience! And an appetite for food, with a conscience which prevents one from having the means to satisfy it, is a piling on of the agony! With Norman on his high horse, so that he will not allow me to do this and that, and you with a conscience which prevents your sending me any more money, truly I am in a fix. But I won’t be beaten. I must find grist for the mill somewhere and somehow, if I have to sing in the street, or be a flower-girl. My dear old Norman shan’t starve to death while I have any wits left at all. As for you, if you were not too proud, there are artists who would pay much for the privilege of painting your lovely face. I know Norman would be charmed to have it for his picture of ’Ganymede.’ Indeed, he is painting her astonishingly like you, although an ordinary model is sitting for it. Your face is your fortune, darling, when all is said and done. And you’ll marry a duke, no doubt, in the end, while I shall be only an insignificant nobody, perhaps mentioned in the ’Life of Norman Sinclair, R.A.’ as having fed the lion when he was oblivious of such mundane things as pounds, shillings and pence. Good night. When I have thought of what I will do, I’ll send you word. Then maybe you will join me in doing it: and we won’t let anybody come between us ever again. "Thine, "ALICE." Another day, when Doris was despairing of ever getting anything to do, she received a second letter from her friend, which was short and to the point. "Eureka! I have found it," wrote Alice, "now at last our woes will be all over. Our work will be honourable of its sort, and it will pay a little--enough to feed the lion and our humble selves, although we shall not be able to save money. Oh, dear no. But we must be thankful for small mercies in these days. Meet me to-morrow at twelve o’clock at the Park Square entrance to the Broad Walk in Regent’s Park; then we will have a walk and talk about it. "Thine, "ALICE." *CHAPTER XVIII.* *NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS.* No soul can be quite separate, However set aside by fate, However cold or dull or shy Or shrinking from the public eye. The world is common to the race, And nowhere is a hiding-place: Behind, before, with rhythmic beat, Is heard the tread of marching feet. * * * * * And as we meet and touch each day, The many travellers on our way, Let every such brief contact be A glorious, helpful ministry: The contact of the soil and seed, Each giving to the other’s need, Each helping on the other’s best, And blessing, each, as well as blest. SUSAN COOLIDGE.