Nan hurried from the exchange at five o’clock sharp, and around to the drug store where Cicely was awaiting her. “We don’t eat to-night in the Tel. Restaurant, Nancy Bell; we eat at Hildreth’s, one of his regular old ripping platter suppers: lobster; little necks sitting around him; broiled finan haddy, relishes--who minds being a Catholic on Friday when she’s got the price of Hildreth’s about her?” cried Cis, seizing Nan’s hand and tucking it into her arm. “Drew my last check from the Tel. Co., so it’s on me, and a treat at Hildreth’s, just to celebrate!” “Oh, Cis, Cis, what are you going to do next?” sighed Nan, yielding, yet disapproving this extravagance. “After the supper? I hadn’t thought. Movie? But we don’t care for movies!” Cis pretended to meditate. “You know I don’t mean that! What sort of work will you try for? Where will you go--” Cis interrupted her by whistling blithely, as well as any boy could whistle, as indifferent as a boy to passers-by: “Oh, boys, where do we go from here?” “Wait till after lobster, Nan, and I’ll tell you,” Cis then said, seeing Nan’s real distress. “Oh, that means something that would spoil my appetite!” cried prophetic Nan. After a delicious supper in the famous sea-food specialty restaurant, to which Cis did fuller justice than Nan, Cis lay back in her chair, her small cup of black coffee before her, her eyes on the contorted shoulders of the ’cellist of the orchestra of four pieces which “helped float the fish,” Cis said. “Going to tell me?” hinted Nan. “I hate to, Nan, because I know you’ll hate it, and so do I, when I think of you. But I’m going to get out of here, altogether; I’m going to Beaconhite to try my luck,” announced Cicely. “Beaconhite! Whatever _for_?” gasped Nan. “Never could tell you,” said Cis airily. “Always wanted to try that little city. Spells its name so crazy, that’s one reason; must have been Beacon Height once, of course. I always had an idea I’d like it; it’s hustling, yet settled. I’ve some money saved up; not much; enough to carry me on till I get to earning, and I’m dead sick, dead tired of here! Not tired of you, little Nan, but of the place. I think I’d better move up a square or two; ’tisn’t good to cork up too much fermentation. Honest, Nan, it’s lucky I’ve not taken up that vitamine bug they’re all rushing so! If I ate yeast cakes, like the rest of ’em, I’d fly to pieces! I’m going to Beaconhite and show it what a red-haired girl can do to it! Nanny, don’t look so sorry! And don’t cry, dear! That lobster shell had enough salt water, and too much hot water!” “You’ll forget all about me, and I love you dearly, Cis,” faltered Nan.