Beside the people in the boarding-house there was someone else who had been watching Ada working the soft curves of her face into sharper lines, and seeing the deeper shadows come below her bright eyes. It was an old man who drove to business every day on the Fifth Avenue stage-coach. He always knew that, if it was a wet day, Ada would be waiting at 20, East 32nd Street for the coach to pass, but if it was fine, she would save her twenty-five cents and walk. He was an observant old man, and somewhat of a character. He was supposed to be a miser, and very wealthy, though he lived in a small tenement house, and kept no servant. While he sat huddled up in the corner of the coach, which rattled and shook over the stones of Fifth Avenue like a relic from the last century, he had noticed every detail of the girl’s dress, he had seen the once pretty frocks become almost threadbare, and the dainty shoes lose their freshness. He had made inquiries, and found out her story. One day she had given the conductor a five-dollar bill to pay for her fare. The man gave her back a quarter too much change. The old man watched her count the money, and look at the extra quarter. It was bitterly cold weather, and he knew that that quarter would pay for her journey there and back for another two days. The girl’s expression said it as plainly as words could have done. “You’ve given me a quarter too much,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice. The man did not even say “Thank you,” but snatched the money out of her hand roughly. The old man smiled; he had long ago lost his belief in human nature, and this little act of honesty on the girl’s part did him good. If was like going near a fire on a cold winter day. The meeting of Ada coming and going from her work grew to be the one interest in the old hermit’s life. He had watched her so carefully that he had gained a knowledge of her life of which she was wholly unconscious. He had seen her tenderness to her little sisters when he met them out together on a Saturday afternoon. Often he had wandered over Central Park with his keen eyes looking out eagerly for the graceful figure of Ada Nicoli laced arm-in-arm with the two young children, and when they stopped to feed the swans on the lake, or rest in some summer-house, the old man seated himself where he could feast his eyes on his adopted family unseen. Two or three times he had seen something very like tears in Ada’s eyes when a carriage with some beautifully-dressed women in it would pass the girl, and they would give her a stiff little bow of recognition. * * * * *