He pulled himself together and stood up, wondering where he had left his broom, and simultaneously stiffened with surprise, aware that he was not alone. A glance, however, established the connection between the rear door, which stood ajar, and the young woman who stood staring at him in utterest stupefaction. This, he thought, must be the woman of the voice, upstairs. But she couldn't be Graham's wife. She was too young. Even beneath the mask of care and weariness, the all too plain evidences of privation, spiritual and mental as well as physical, that Betty wore unceasingly in those days, he could discern youth and grace and gentleness, and the nascent promise of prettiness that longed to be, to have the chance to show itself and claim its meed of deference and love. He was quick to see the intelligence in her mutinous eyes, and the sweet lines of her mouth, too often shaped in sullen mould, and no less quick to recognise that she would carry herself well, with spirit and dignity, once she were relieved of household toil and moil, once given the chance to discard her shapeless, bedraggled and threadbare garments for those dainty and beautiful things for which her starved heart must be sick with longing.... "Good Lord!" he thought, pitiful, "it's worse here than I dreamed. Old Graham must need a keeper--and this child has been trying to be that, with nothing to keep him on." "Who are you?" the girl demanded sullenly, in a voice a little harsh and toneless. "What are you doing here? Where's my father?" "Mr. Graham has stepped out on business," Duncan replied. "You are his daughter, I believe?" "Yes, I'm his daughter, but----" "My name is Nathaniel Duncan. Mr. Graham has been kind enough to take me on as apprentice, so to speak." Her stare continued, intense, resentful, undeviating. "You mean you're going to work here?" "That my intention, Miss Graham." He nodded gravely. "What for?" "To learn the drug business." "Oh-h!" She flung herself a pace away, impatiently. "I'm not a child, and I don't want to be talked to like one." "I didn't mean to annoy you----" [Illustration: "You mean you're going to work here?"] "Well, you do. You've got no business in a run-down place like this-- you with your fine clothes and your fine airs. You didn't come here to learn the drug business; you know as well as I do you've got some other motive." There was a truth in that to sting him. He smarted under its lash, but held his temper in check because he was sorry for the girl. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded; "perhaps I have some other motive. But that's neither here nor there. I'm here, and it is my present intention to learn the drug business in your father's store." "I don't believe you, Mister Duncan--or whatever your name is." "I'm sorry," he said patiently. Betty's lips twitched, contemptuous. "Well, saying you do mean to work here----" "I do." "Where do you think your pay's going to come from?" "Heaven, perhaps."