In the afternoon he went over to the North Side, and along a modest street he walked, looking at the houses as if hunting for a number. He went up a short flight of wooden steps and rang the bell of the second flat. The hall door was open, and a moment later he saw Miss Drury at the head of the stairs. "Why, is that you, Mr. Witherspoon?" "Yes; may I come up?" "What a question! Of course you may, especially as I am as lonesome as I can be." He was shown into a neat sitting-room, where a canary bird "fluttered" his hanging cage up and down. A rose was pinned on one of the white curtains. The room was warmed by a stove, and through the isinglass the playful flame could be seen. She brought a "tidied" rocking-chair, and smiling in her welcome, said that as this was his first visit, she must make him comfortable. "Don't you see," she added, "that you constantly make me forget that I am working for you?" "And don't you know," he answered, "that you are most pleasing when you do forget it? But I am to infer that you wouldn't give me the rocking-chair if you didn't forget that you were working for me?" "You must infer nothing," she said. "But am I most pleasing when I forget? Then I will not remember again. It is a woman's duty to be pleasing; and her advantage, too, for when she ceases to please she loses many of her privileges." DeGolyer went to the window, took the rose, brought it to her and said: "Put this in your hair." She looked up as she took the rose; their eyes met and for a moment they lived in the promise of a delirious bliss. She looked down as she was putting the flower in her hair. He spoke an idle word that meant more than old Wisdom's speech, and she answered with a laugh that was nearly a sob. He thirsted to take her in his arms, to tell her of his love, but his time was not yet come--he was still Henry Witherspoon. "How have you spent the day?" she asked. "I'm thinking of to-morrow." "And will to-morrow be so important?" "Yes, the most important day of my life." "Oh, tell me about it." "I will to-morrow." "Well, I suppose I shall have to wait, but I wish you would tell me just a little bit of it." "To tell a little would be to tell all. The story is not yet complete." "Oh, is it a story? And is it one that you are writing?" "No, one that I am living. It is a strange tale." "I know it must be interesting, but what has to-morrow to do with it?" "It will be completed then." "I don't understand you; I never did. I've often thought you the saddest man I have ever seen, and I've wondered why. You ought not to be sad--fortune is surely a friend of yours. You live in a grand house, and your father is a power in this great community. All the advantages of this life are within your reach; and if you can find cause to be sad, what must be the condition of people who have to struggle in order to live!" "The summing-up of what you say means that I ought to be thankful."