“Fancy sketches ’twould be!” returned Miss Gallatin. “Women boarders are a species by themselves; idle, censorious, meddlesome. Hers aren’t peculiar to Mrs. Wallace; she’s not to blame for ’em; mine are just the same! They’re all alike, mostly, and when they’re different from the rest, heaven help the different ones! The things I’ve seen women, who were supposed to be ladies when they were away from a boarding house table, do to get the hearts of the celery--gracious! I’m sure those at Mrs. Wallace’s pick at you; you’re too gay and independent to escape! Too young, besides! Well, that would be the same anywhere, but come to me if ever there’s a chance. You can’t come while G. Rodney’s in the house; I won’t have you! Now, good-bye, my dear! I do like you, and, somehow, the thought of you anxiously haunts me. Believe me, if you are happy with G. Rodney and can bring him back to his faith, if he’ll be to you what you expect him to be, no one will be more glad than queer Hannah Gallatin! So don’t hold a grudge in your memory of me, and come to see me some Sunday--if you have spare time!” Cis heartily shook the worn hand which this peculiar, but sterling woman held out to her. She resented her suspicions of Rodney, yet in spite of them, she liked her cordially, and left her with a surprising warmth for her in her own heart, and a pity that recognized the tragedy which Miss Gallatin’s brief allusion to her own perfidious lover revealed. Cis walked on thoughtfully for a short distance after leaving Miss Gallatin, her thoughts grave, almost somber. It was gloomy to know that once this woman had been young like her, full to overflowing with the joy which now filled Cicely, joy which had congealed under the cruellest ice, the cold of disappointment and disillusionment. But the perfidy of that older lover did not involve the perfidy of Rodney. Rodney! The word “perfidy” was an absurdity in connection with his name! Cis threw off her depression, squared her shoulders like a boy, and broke into a swinging pace, softly whistling: “But I never knew, dear,” the song which she had hummed replying to Miss Gallatin. This time, casting aside her dignity as Mr. Lucas’ private secretary, Cis whistled aloud in the street, albeit softly. There were piles of letters waiting upon her desk when Cis sat down to it, letters in ordinary long-hand and typed letters, but the majority of them written in the code peculiar to that office and to the secrets of its clients and associates.