Little Ann did not often appear in it, but now and then she came down with her bit of sewing,--she always had a “bit of sewing,”--and she sat in the cozy-corner listening to the talk or letting some one confide troubles to her. Sometimes it was the New England widow, Mrs. Peck, who looked like a spinster school-ma'am, but who had a married son with a nice wife who lived in Harlem and drank heavily. She used to consult with Little Ann as to the possible wisdom of putting a drink deterrent privately in his tea. Sometimes it was Mr. Jakes, a depressed little man whose wife had left him, for no special reason he could discover. Oftenest perhaps it was Julius Steinberger or Jim Bowles who did their ingenuous best to present themselves to her as energetic, if not successful, young business men, not wholly unworthy of attention and always breathing daily increasing devotion. Sometimes it was Tembarom, of whom her opinion had never been expressed, but who seemed to have made friends with her. She liked to hear about the newspaper office and Mr. Galton, and never was uninterested in his hopes of “making good.” She seemed to him the wisest and most direct and composed person he had ever known. She spoke with the broad, flat, friendly Manchester accent, and when she let drop a suggestion, it carried a delightfully sober conviction with it, because what she said was generally a revelation of logical mental argument concerning details she had gathered through her little way of listening and saying nothing whatever. “If Mr. Biker drinks, he won't keep his place,” she said to Tembarom one night. “Perhaps you might get it yourself, if you persevere.” Tembarom reddened a little. He really reddened through joyous excitement. “Say, I didn't know you knew a thing about that,” he answered. “You're a regular wonder. You scarcely ever say anything, but the way you get on to things gets me.” “Perhaps if I talked more I shouldn't notice as much,” she said, turning her bit of sewing round and examining it. “I never was much of a talker. Father's a good talker, and Mother and me got into the way of listening. You do if you live with a good talker.” Tembarom looked at the girl with a male gentleness, endeavoring to subdue open expression of the fact that he was convinced that she was as thoroughly aware of her father's salient characteristics as she was of other things. “You do,” said Tembarom. Then picking up her scissors, which had dropped from her lap, and politely returning them, he added anxiously: “To think of you remembering Biker! I wonder, if I ever did get his job, if I could hold it down?” “Yes,” decided Little Ann; “you could. I've noticed you're that kind of person, Mr. Tembarom.” “Have you?” he said elatedly. “Say, honest Injun?” “Yes.” “I shall be getting stuck on myself if you encourage me like that,” he said, and then, his face falling, he added, “Biker graduated at Princeton.”