"Day before yesterday she was in and out. Miss Cross, the lady who lives in this other apartment, said she called on Miss Linster yesterday morning." "The point is that she left no word--either with you or with us--before going away. We are very good friends of hers. I'll ring for luck----" The bell rang long and loudly. Paula imagined the thick thumb pressed against it, and the big troubled face. She wanted to answer--but facing Reifferscheid was not in her that moment.... The elevator was called from below. "No use," Reifferscheid said finally. "Here's a coin for your trouble. I'll call up the first thing in the morning----" She heard the click of the elevator-door, and the quick whine of the car, sinking in the shaft. She recalled that she had not been at _The States_ for four or five days. She had intended going down-town yesterday.... She thought long of Reifferscheid's genuine and changeless kindness, of his constant praise for sincerity anywhere and his battling for the preservation of ideals in all work. His faith in Charter recurred to her--and his frequently unerring judgments of men and women she had known. All about him was sturdy and wholesome--a substance, this, to hold fast.... Reifferscheid had come in the crisis. Paula fell asleep, thinking of snails and stickle-backs, flowers and Sister Annie, big trees and solid friends. She awoke in a different world--at least, a world in which tea and toast and marmalade were reckonable. Her thoughts went bravely down into the depression for salvage; and a mind that can do this is not without hope. It was only eight. Reifferscheid had not yet 'phoned.... Charter would have her letter now, or soon--that letter written seven eternities ago in the first hysteria, while she could yet weep. She could not have written in the ice-cold silence of yesterday. She wished that she had not let him see that she could weep. When the tragedy had risen to high-tide in her soul--there had been no words for him. Would she ever write again?...