Through the closed door, in the silence of the house, for it was the time when nearly all the boarders were out, she could hear plainly nearly every word said in the outer room. The rain--it had actually begun to rain a little--was on Wardwell's mind apparently, for he began a fresh story with: "Do you remember the time of the Flood, Mrs. Wilding?" "Well--not quite, Mr. Jimmie." And Augusta could almost feel her mother's amused chuckle through the dark. She had always loved fun. And although she herself did not talk a great deal she had always liked to hear the laughter and nonsense of young folks around her. "Well, you know, that time, McCarty was up a tree. And along comes Noah, sailing, decks awash, and the rain pouring down in gutters. "'Are ye takin' anny Irish this trip, Sor?' says McCarty. "Noah looks at him with a weary eye. Says he, sorrowfully: "'I am a sea-faring man, by preoccupation. I have on board two thousand, three hundred eighty one married couples. The name of this ship is TROUBLE. Irish--' he muttered '--Irish?' "'Oh, have a heart, Noah,' says McCarty. 'Sure wan more can do little harm. Take me on.' "'I wont,' says Noah. "'You oant?' says McCarty. "'I wont,' says Noah. "'Well, ye can go to Blazes--It's only a shower, anyway.'" Augusta, hysterically stuffing the bed clothes against her mouth, heard her mother's hearty, pleasant laugh ring out. And for an instant she thought that her own little play was real; that she was, indeed, the little girl of other years lying in her cot and listening to the grown folks in the other room. Then her own laughter turned, as laughter will, to hot, choking tears of fear and trepidation that burned her throat. The talk outside ran on pleasantly, naturally; just such an hour as Wardwell and one or two others of the boarders had often spent with her mother. Wardwell loved to tell stories, to run on about himself, about his lack of money--it was a tradition of the house, founded probably on his own authority, that he had but three socks, one of which he washed every night--about the scrapes which he was constantly getting into and getting out of. He never laughed at the end of one of his own tales, but always before beginning one he would break out with a short, provoking laugh to himself, as though he had just heard a good thing. It was all so natural, so real, that Augusta, her mind unconsciously relaxing from the strains of the day, caught herself almost falling asleep. She heard one after another of the boarders come up the stairs and stop for a moment, at the door of the room where the two chatted, for a rather timid and curious word or two with the mistress of the house. But with Rose Wilding there was nothing except the usual and the ordinary. She was in her own house, her own room, doing as she had done on any other evening. Her house was making its orderly, routine way to bed. Finally Wardwell rose, saying: