"I know the people in this town have a very poor opinion of me," he went on, "and I deserve it, no doubt. You see, the bottom dropped out of my life not long ago, and I haven't found myself yet. But you did more for me in ten minutes the other day than everything and everybody, including myself, have been able to do since my father died." "I don't remember that I said anything," she murmured. "I didn't say that what you said helped me. I said what you _did_--and looked. And--I'd like to come." "We never have any callers," she explained. "You see, father's--our--views--People don't understand us. And, too, we've found ourselves very congenial and sufficient unto one another. So--I--I--don't know what to say." He looked so cast down that she hastened on: "Yes--come whenever you like. We're always at home. But we work all day." "So do I," said Arthur. "Thank you. I'll come--some evening next week." Suddenly he felt peculiarly at ease with her, as if he had always known her, as if she and he understood each other perfectly. "I'm afraid you'll find me stupid," he went on. "I don't know much about any of the things you're interested in." "Perhaps I'm interested in more things than you imagine," said she. "My sister says I'm a fraud--that I really have a frivolous mind and that my serious look is a hollow pretense." And so they talked on, not getting better acquainted but enjoying the realization of how extremely well acquainted they were. When he was gone, Madelene found that her father had been in for some time. "Didn't he ask for me?" she said to Walpurga. "Yes," answered Walpurga. "And I told him you were flirting with Arthur Ranger." Madelene colored violently. "I never heard that word in this house before," she said stiffly. "Nor I," replied Walpurga, the pink and white. "And I think it's high time--with you nearly twenty-two and me nearly twenty." At dinner her father said: "Well, Lena, so you've got a beau at last. I'd given up hope." "For Heaven's sake don't scare him away, father!" cried Walpurga. "A pretty poor excuse," pursued the doctor. "I doubt if Arthur Ranger can make enough to pay his own board in a River Street lodging house." "It took courage--real courage--to go to work as he did," replied Madelene, her color high. "Yes," admitted her father, "_if_ he sticks to it." "He will stick to it," affirmed Madelene. "I think so," assented her father, dropping his teasing pretense and coming out frankly for Arthur. "When a man shows that he has the courage to cross the Rubicon, there's no need to worry about whether he'll go on or turn back." "You mustn't let him know he's the only beau you've ever had, Meg," cautioned her sister. "And why not?" demanded Madelene. "If I ever did care especially for a man, I'd not care for him because other women had. And I shouldn't want a man to be so weak and vain as to feel that way about me."