Kathleen was standing by her kitchen-stove looking with disgust at the eggs and milk that she had been trying to persuade to become a custard but that had resolved themselves into whey. The heat had been so great she had delayed her cooking until a late hour, and now it was past time to go to bed. With a gesture of resigned despair she walked across the room and threw the mixture into the sink. "It's a drear world," she remarked grimly. Going to her window she looked out into the night. There were lights still in a number of the flats. She could discern children sleeping on the fire escapes, and among the sounds that rose to where she stood was a man's harsh, drunken voice and a woman's higher, scolding tones. "'Tis a night when eyes will be blackened," she said to herself, "more than kitchen-stoves. Let's pray the grown-ups have it to themselves and don't waken the kids." In the midst of her reflections the bell rang. With another sigh of resignation she punched the button that released the lower latch, and going into the hall threw open her door to greet her evening visitor. Some one was coming up the stairs quickly, excitedly. She could hear short, swift footsteps on the treads, running through the hall to hurry up the stairs again. Some urgent call she presumed--a baby fighting for entrance into this world, or a sick child weeping to leave it. Instinctively drawing herself up for service, Kathleen stood ready to answer whatever call might come. The hurrying steps faltered a little at the third flight as though halted by overpowering weariness, but in a second they came on fast again. She could see the figure now--a girl, hatless, coatless, in a white dress. A moment, and she was looking into Hertha's upturned face. "Let me in, Kathleen," the girl cried. The Irishwoman's greeting was instant and affectionate. Any harbored resentment vanished as she saw that her visitor was in trouble, needing her help. Had Hertha come richly dressed, breathing prosperity, she would have received scant welcome; but now she was led into the kitchen, her hostess talking affectionately. "It was this very evening, dearie, I was thinking of you when the custard went back on me. If my old lodger was here now, I says to myself, we'd be eating custards as smooth as Father McGinnis when he comes asking for ten dollars for the church. Sit down in your old seat, it's missing you." But Hertha did not sit. She had heard nothing of Kathleen's welcome. Standing by the table, her head thrown back defiantly, she cried in an excited voice, "Keep me here to-night and I'll be out of your way to-morrow." "It's for you to stay as long as you like," her friend answered.