"It's your own affair, naturally," she had returned indifferently; "but I'll have to find accomodations elsewhere. If living in the same house would injure me professionally, merely a boarder, you can guess what it will do to you in a business way, and," she had added significantly, "socially." Mrs. Terriberry had looked startled. After hanging to the fringe until she was all but exhausted, it was small wonder that she had no desire to again go through the harrowing experience of overcoming Society's objections to a hotelkeeper's wife. "Certainly I don't blame you for hanging on to her as long as you can," Dr. Harpe had added, "and of course you would be the last to hear all the gossip that there is about her. But, on the whole, isn't it rather a high price to pay for--well, for a biscuit-shooter's friendship? Such people really don't count, you know." Mrs. Terriberry who had once shot biscuits in a "Harvey's Eating House" murmured meekly-- "Of course not." But instantly ashamed of her weak disloyalty she had declared with a show of spirit, "However, unless Hank says she must go she can stay, for Essie has come pretty close to bein' like my own girl to me." Dr. Harpe had been satisfied to let it rest at that, for she felt sure enough of Terriberry's answer. "He needs my money, but if more pressure is necessary,"--she sniggered at the recollection of Mr. Terriberry's sentimental leanings--"I can spend an hour with him in the light of the 'meller moon.'" Again Dr. Harpe was right. Mr. Terriberry needed the money, also his fears took instant alarm at the thought of losing so popular and influential a guest, one, who, as he told Mrs. Terriberry emphatically, could do him a power of harm. The actual dismissal of the girl who had grown to womanhood under his eyes he wisely left to his wife. The girl stood up now, a slender, swaying figure: white, desolate, with uplifted arms outstretched, she looked like a storm-whipped flower. "Oh, what shall I do! Where shall I go!" The low, broken-hearted cry of despair set Mrs. Terriberry's plain face in lines of distress. "Essie, Essie, don't feel so bad!" she begged chokingly. The girl's answer was a swift look of bitter reproach. "You can stay here until you find some place that suits you." The girl shook her head. "To-morrow I'll go--somewhere." "Don't feel hard toward me, Essie," and she would have taken the girl's hand, but she drew it quietly away and stood with folded arms in an attitude of aloofness which was new to her. "It's not that; it's only that I don't want your--pity. I don't think that I want anything you have to give. You have hurt me; you have cut me to the quick and something is happening--has happened--_here_!" She laid both hands upon her heart. "I feel still and cold and sort of--impersonal inside." "Oh, Essie!"