"Last night, six o'clock." Albert was getting warmer and better-natured. "Well, I'm here; what are you going t' do with me?" "I'll use you some way. First thing is to find a boarding-place where we can work in a couple o' books on the bill." "Well, I don't know about that, but I'm going to look up a place a brakeman gave me a pointer on." "All right; here goes!" Scarcely any one was stirring on the streets. The wind was pitilessly cold, though not strong. The snow under their feet cried out with a note like glass and steel. The windows of the stores were thick with frost, and Albert shivered with a sense of homelessness. He had never experienced anything like this before. "I don't want much of this," he muttered, through his scarf. Mrs. Welsh lived in a large frame house standing on the edge of a bank, and as the young men waited at the door they could look down on the meadow-land, where the river lay blue and hard as steel. A pale little girl, ten or twelve years of age, opened the door. "Is this where Mrs. Welsh lives?" "Yes, sir." "Will you ask her to come here a moment?" "Yes, sir," piped the little one. "Won't you come in and sit down by the fire?" she added, with a quaint air of hospitality. The room was the usual village sitting-room. A cylinder heater full of wood stood at one side of it. A rag carpet, much faded, covered the floor. The paper on the wall was like striped candy, and the chairs were nondescript; but everything was clean--worn more with brushing than with use. A slim woman of fifty, with hollow eyes and a patient smile, came in, wiping her hands on her apron. "How d'ye do? Did you want to see me?" "Yes," said Hartley, smiling. "The fact is, we're book agents, and looking for a place to board." "Well--a--I--yes, I keep boarders." "I was sent here by a brakeman on the midnight express," put in Bert, "Oh, Tom," said the woman, her face clearing. "Tom's always sending us people. Why, yes; I've got room for you, I guess--this room here." She pushed open a folding door leading into what had been her parlor. "You can have this." "And the price?" "Four dollars." "Eight dollars f'r the two of us. All right; we'll be with you a week or two if we have luck." Mrs. Welsh smiled. "Excuse me, won't you? I've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves at home." Bert remarked how much she looked like his own mother in the back. She had the same tired droop in the shoulders, the same colorless dress, characterless with much washing. "Certainly. I feel at home already," replied Bert. "Now, Jim," he said, after she left the room, "I'm going t' stay right here while you go and order our trunks around--just t' pay you off f'r last night." "All right," said Hartley cheerily, going out.