"Bookish, but with a good 'eart. Shabby, but quite a gentleman," ran the landlady's verdict. Madge chose to take him for a poet. He was a tall, fair young man, with a pale face and sad, serious eyes. The little upholsteress, who was not a philosopher, and had never read Emerson, had, nevertheless, long ago "renounced ideals and accepted London." Her life had always been hard. Before her birth her parents had lost their all in one of those financial disasters which sometimes overtake the most prosperous communities. The father died broken-hearted. Madge worked bravely for her mother until she, too, went from her. Then the orphan faced the world with a slender yearly pittance of twenty pounds. Such lives are too common in London to stand for romance. She was generally lucky in getting work, and one cannot starve on a shilling a day. Paul Vespan, whom Mrs. Xerxes believed to be "something in the City," was much poorer than Madge; but he had a Hope, which he meant to convert into money some day. Meanwhile, he carried it about in the breast-pocket of his shabby coat in the shape of a roll of MS. The sheets were torn at the edges and blackened with frequent post marks--the scars of repeated disappointments. But all day long they nestled near the poet's heart. For the truth of Paul Vespan was what Madge Barberry had divined, though Mrs. Xerxes also had right on her side. Her lodger was a sandwich-man. He had not come to London with that intention, but he had fallen to it. His people, well-to-do, narrow-minded country folk, took it for granted that he was getting on. The fact was, he was on the verge of starvation. II. It was sultry summer evening in Marigold Place. Madge Barberry, who had worked far into the twilight, was sitting at her open window with idly folded hands. Overhead the glassy sky was brilliant with stars. Down in the mews the lamps flickered fitfully behind their panes. From time to time the silence was broken by the shrill screams of gutter children at play, or by the impatient stamp of a horse in its stall. Madge was singing to herself, but her thoughts were wandering away from the song to Mr. Vespan. The motherliness in her tender young heart had been touched by the sight of his wan, weary face, as it passed her on the stairs that morning. He walked languidly, and seemed paler than usual. But, then, the heat was very trying. Fierce enough in Marigold Place, it was worse, no doubt, in the City. Could it have been a mere fancy, too, that he looked at her, as she hurried by, with timid, pitiful eyes, that seemed to ask her help? Poor Paul! It would have done him good to know how much sympathetic interest he was exciting in this stranger's heart. Mrs. Xerxes limped upstairs after supper, and found her lodger in the dark. Madge economized in lights all the summer. "If you please, Miss Barberry," said Mrs. Xerxes, who brought with her a strong odour of fried fish, "I've taken the liberty to get a job for you."