With a rush of impulse she stepped out upon the fire-escape, the letter fluttering in her hand. "Mr. Algarcife!" she called, softly. As his figure darkened the lighted space between the window-sashes she went towards him. He faced her in surprise. "What is it?" he inquired, abruptly. Mariana held out the letter, and then followed him as he re-entered his room. "I cannot do it!" she said, passionately. "I cannot! I cannot!" Without heeding her, Anthony unfolded the letter, read it and reread it with judicial composure; after which he folded it again, placed it in the envelope, and stood holding it in his right hand. The only visible effect it produced upon him was a nervous twitching of his thin lips. "And what have you decided?" he asked, slowly. Mariana interlaced her fingers impatiently. She looked small and white, and excitement caused her eyes to appear abnormally large. Her features quivered and her tone was tremulous. "I will not go back," she protested. "I will not! Oh, I will not!" "Is it so bad?" He still held the letter. "Bad! It is worse than--than anything. If I had stayed there I should have gone mad. It was paralyzing me inch by inch. Oh, if you could only know what it is--a dusty, dirty little house, smelling of cabbage, a troop of screaming children, and quarrels all day long." He met her outburst with a remonstrative gesture, but there was a mellow light in his eyes and his face had softened. As if resenting a voluntary restraint, he shook back a lock of hair that had fallen upon his forehead. "But your father?" Mariana looked at him as if he represented the bar of judgment and she were pleading her cause. She spoke with feverish conviction. "Oh, he doesn't want me! If you only knew what a relief it was to him when I came away. Things were so much quieter. He likes his wife and I hate her, so we don't agree. There is never any peace when I am there--never." "And the children?" His eyes met Mariana's, and again his lips twitched nervously. He held the check-rein of desire with a relentless hand, but the struggle told. "They are horrid," responded Mariana, insistently. "They are all hers. If they had really belonged to me, I wouldn't have left them, but they didn't, not one. And I won't teach them. I'd rather teach the children of that shoemaker across the way. I'd rather scrub the streets." Anthony smiled, and the tenderness in his eyes rained upon her. The fact that she had thrown herself upon his sympathy completed the charm she exercised over him. Still he held himself in hand. "You know of nothing that could call you back?" he asked. "Nothing," answered Mariana. "I shouldn't like to starve, but I'd almost as soon starve as live on cabbage." Then she faced him tragically. "My father's wife is a very coarse woman. She has cabbage one day and onions the next." The smile in Anthony's eyes deepened. "It would be impossible to select a more wholesome article of food than the latter," he observed.