Kitchen, utensils, floors, walls, dormitory, orphans--all were spotlessly clean, the orphans sluiced and scrubbed from morning to night; but of things that might give a little hint of the joy of life there was no sign. “This is the infirmary,” said the matron, with her hand on the door-knob. “I should like to see it,” said John. They entered. An almost full-grown orphan, doing duty as nurse, rose from her task of plain sewing and bobbed a curtsy. The room was clean, comfortless, dark, and cold. Two pictures, prints of the Crucifixion and the Martyrdom of St. Stephen, hung on the walls. There were three narrow, hard beds, two of which were occupied. Some grapes on a chair beside one of them marked the patient in whom he was interested. John noticed angrily that some flowers which he had sent the day before had been confiscated. “This is the gentleman who has been so kind to you,” said the matron. Unity Blake looked wonderingly into the dark, rugged face of the man who stood over her and regarded her with mingled pain and pity. They had not told her his name. This, then, was the unknown benefactor whose image, like that of some elusive Apollo, Giver of Things Beautiful, had haunted her poor dreams. “Can't you say, 'Thank you?' “ said the matron. “Thank you, sir,” said Unity Blake. Even in those three words her accent was unmistakably cockney--as unmistakably cockney as the coarse-featured, snub-nosed, common little face. In happier, freer conditions she would have done her skimpy hair up in patent curlers and worn a hat with a purple feather, and joined heartily in the raucous merriment of her comrades at the pickle-factory. Here, however, she was lying, poor little devil, thought Risca, warped from childhood by the ascetic ideal, and wrecked body and spirit by unutterable cruelty. In her eyes flickered the patient apprehension of the ill-treated dog. “I hope you will soon get better,” he said, with sickening knowledge of that which lay hidden beneath the rough bedclothes. “Yes, sir,” said Unity. “It 's chiefly her nerves now,” said the matron. “She hollers out of nights, so she can't be put into the dormitory.” “Do you like the things I send you?” asked John. “Yes, sir.” “Is there anything special you'd like to have?” “No, sir.” But he caught a certain wistfulness in her glance. “She does n't want anything at all,” said the matron, and the girl's eyelids fluttered. “She's being spoiled too much as it is already.”