“No, thanks,” said Miss Allyn, laughing; “none of that for me. Do you suppose I could stand it to see you forever spooning?” After a laugh at this remark, Mr. Moore took his departure, boldly kissing his sweetheart in the tenderest manner. “Good-by, Ralph,” said Marion. “I will not see you again. I have an engagement to-morrow night, and Monday I go to the Island.” “Well, good luck, Sister Marion,” said Ralph, taking her hand; then he turned toward Dollie with a pleading expression. “Yes, you can kiss her, seeing it’s Marion,” said Dollie, laughing, “but just look out for yourself, sir. If I ever catch you kissing any other girl, why, I’d just scratch your eyes out, even if I do love you.” “I won’t take any chances,” said Ralph, in mock terror; then he kissed Marion good-by and said good night to Miss Allyn. “A mighty fine fellow,” was Miss Allyn’s comment. “A noble young man,” was Marion’s answer. “We can never forget how loyally he has defended us.” Miss Allyn knew what she meant, and nodded her head. She had heard the story of Ralph Moore’s strange deed, how he had appropriated a jewel from his aunt and pawned it to keep the girls from starvation. “I’d trust a man like that anywhere,” she said, slowly, “for no matter what he did, no one would suffer by it; he would look at both sides of a brook before he jumped it.” The girls were soon in bed and sound asleep. They had had a tiresome day, but would have been absolutely happy had not the unfaithfulness of Miss Allyn’s lover cast a cloud upon their thoughts. Early Monday morning Marion said good-by to her friend and to her sister, for Miss Allyn and Dollie were going down town together, as it was Dollie’s first day of service as a typewriter. At ten o’clock Marion started out. Her boat left at eleven from the East Twenty-sixth street dock, and she had a permit in her pocket which the clerk at Charity Hospital had sent her. It was to be a strange experience, and Marion trembled a little. Some way she dreaded to see the sights that she was about to encounter. “There are prisoners and crazy people of all kinds up there,” she whispered to herself. “I just dread to face such misery, and yet some one has to do it.” She had packed her little trunk and sent it on before her, so now she had nothing but a handbag to carry, and she quite enjoyed the ride from Harlem in the elevated train. Marion had just reached the street from the elevated station, when the sharp clang of a bell startled her from her reflections. There was a large group of people about half way down the block, and in an instant an ambulance came dashing around the corner. “A woman either sick or drunk,” said somebody near her. Marion walked along slowly, so as not to get in the crowd which, like all New York crowds, seemed to spring right up through the sidewalk.