"Oh, Lyddy! don't talk that way. He _is_ going to be all right after a few days' rest." "I do not think he will ever be well if he goes back to work in that hat factory. If we could only get him to Hillcrest." "And there we'd all starve to death in a hurry," grumbled 'Phemie, punching the hard, little boarding-house pillow. "Oh, dear! what's the use of talking? There is no way out!" "There's always a way out--if we think hard enough," returned her sister. "Wish you'd promulgate one," sniffed 'Phemie. "I am going to think--and you do the same." "I'm going to----" "Snore!" finished 'Phemie. That ended the discussion for the time being. But Lydia lay awake and racked her tired brain for hours. The pale light of the raw March morning streaked the window-pane when Lydia was awakened by her sister hurrying into her clothes for the day's work at the millinery store. There would be but two days more for her there. And then? It was a serious problem. Lydia had perhaps ten dollars in her reserve fund. Father might not be paid for his full week if he did not go back to the shop. His firm was not generous, despite the fact that Mr. Bray had worked so long for them. A man past forty, who is frequently sick a day or two at a time, soon wears out the patience of employers, especially when there is young blood in the firm. 'Phemie would get her week's pay Saturday night. Altogether, Lyddy might find thirty dollars in her hand with which to face the future for all three of them! What could she get for their soaked furniture? These thoughts were with her while she was dressing. 'Phemie had hurried away after making her sister promise to telephone as to her father's condition the minute they allowed Lyddy to see him at the hospital. Aunt Jane was a luxurious lie-abed, and had ordered tea and toast for nine o'clock. Her oldest niece put on her shabby hat and coat and went out to the nearest lunch-room, where coffee and rolls were her breakfast. Then she walked down to Trimble Avenue and approached the huge, double-decker where they had lived. Salvage men were already carrying away the charred fragments of the furniture from the top floor. Lyddy hoped that, unlike herself, the Smiths and the others up there had been insured against fire. She plodded wearily up the four flights and unlocked one of the flat doors and entered. Two of the salvage men followed her in and removed the tarpaulins--which had been worse than useless. "No harm done but a little water, Miss," said one of them, consolingly. "But you talk up to the adjuster and he'll make it all right." They all thought, of course, that the Brays' furniture was insured. Lyddy closed the door and looked over the wrecked flat. The parlor furniture coverings were all stained, and the carpet's colors had "run" fearfully. Many of their little keepsakes and "gim-cracks" had been broken when the tarpaulins were spread.