Reading between the lines, she fancied that she detected a wish that she would invite Elithe to visit her. “But, my land!” she said, “what would I do with a girl singing and whistling and, maybe, dancing around the house, tramping the streets, racing outdoors and in at all hours, never putting the stone in its place and letting in the flies. No, I couldn’t stand it in Lucy Potter’s girl, any way. I dare say she is nice, and she’s handsome, too, if she is like her picture, but as to looking like me,—oh, my!—” and she laughed at the absurdity, but was conscious of a little stir of pleasure at the thought that she was ever at all like Elithe, or any young girl with pretense to beauty. By this time Jim had become impatient for his supper, and from giving her sundry soft pats with his paws, had jumped into her chair and from thence on to her shoulder, where he sat coaxing and purring, in imminent danger of falling into her lap. She took him down at last, gave him his milk, and was putting a cake for herself upon the griddle, when on the steps outside there was a stamping of feet, followed by a knock upon the door, and Paul Ralston came in with pools of water dripping from his umbrella. “Isn’t this a corker for a storm?” he said. “I went to the front door first and banged away. I knew you must be home, and so came round here.” He was shutting his umbrella as he talked and removing his wet coat, while Miss Hansford looked wonderingly at him. “Where upon earth did you come from?” she asked. “I’ll tell you as soon as I get to the fire and that cake, which smells awfully good. Don’t you remember how I used to like them when I was a boy and happened in at supper time? Flap-jacks you called them, or something like that.” She did remember and she hastened to fill the griddle and brought an extra plate and cup. “Now for it,” he said, as she heaped his plate with the nicely browned cakes and covered them with maple syrup. “I’ve been to Washington,—sent for by telegram. The bottom has fallen out.” “No, really! You haven’t broke with Clarice?” Miss Hansford asked eagerly, her countenance brightening and then falling at Paul’s answer. “Not a bit of it. Why should I? It’s that rascally Jack. He’s gone to the bad entirely.”