About Art—with a big A—she was rapturous. There seemed to be in her soul a strange hunger for everything ornate and richly beautiful. Archibald devoted himself to studying her. He became strangely interested in East Village, Vt., where, he gathered, the Hon. Ephraim B. Price, her father, was a very distinguished Republican lawyer and politician. He drew Aunt Perkins out concerning her Congregational church, her minister, her fear of the Catholics, her fondness for cats, her secret disbelief in Art. Once in a while they read him a letter from the Hon. Ephraim, in which he could see reflected their own liking for _him_. He found that he was spoken of as “Landlord Archibald.” The Hon. Ephraim was a shrewd old fellow, however, and his counsels and advice were generally of the “trust-not-too-much-to-appearances” order. One evening Miss Perkins complained of a headache, and Archibald found himself alone for an hour with Elvira. She sat beneath the rich brazen lamp, with its pretty crimson shade, absorbing some of the red glow in her lovely face. They had been two weeks in the city, and out of delicate feeling had deposited two ten-dollar bills upon the mantelpiece in the library, where Archibald would see them. He had roared with laughter over them and intended having them framed, but ultimately he found a different use for their amusing board-money. He made some little allusion to the time they had been with him. “Two very short weeks,” said Elvira, “and you have been so very unusually kind, Mr. Archibald. You have done so much for us. We have noticed it. Is it usual for landlords to—to do so much, in the city?” “It depends,” he said, gravely. “Landlords do more for people who are congenial—you are congenial——” “Oh!” A slight pause. “You are more than congenial, _really_,” said Archibald. “For you take an interest, Miss Price. I have secretly espied both you and your aunt dusting——” Elvira bit her lip. “We _have_ dusted,” she admitted, reddening a little, “but it is merely out of force of habit.” “Really,” said Archibald, “I rawther like you the better for it, don’t you know!” “I’m afraid,” said Elvira, her face lighting up with conscious pleasure, “that you have made up your mind as a landlord to like us, whatever we do. I’m afraid you would not like it at all if you knew everything that aunt has done.” “Tell me—I will keep it a profound secret, I assure you,” he laughed. “She has actually dared to invade your kitchen!” “Has she?” said Archibald, dubiously; “really!” “Yes, and she declares that your cook wastes enough every day to keep four families!” “Really!” said Archibald; “I’ll have to look into it.” “You won’t save much out of what we pay,” said Elvira, “and we don’t want to stay if it doesn’t pay you; but——” “Well?” “Mr. Archibald, we are poor.” She looked down. “I’m very sorry, I’m sure—I—” he really did feel a compassion which found its way into his voice, and made it tremble a little.