"No. It has done me good. What a happy face you have!" "I am not unhappy." "May you always remain so! Good-bye, then, since you must go. And thank you once more." He held out his hand feebly, with a wan smile. "And now--now, you will be brave, will you not? Try once more. Let me post your next poem for you. I may bring you luck." "As you brought me light. I should be a churl to refuse you, to whom I owe my life. You _shall_ post a poem for me. I have a penny in my pocket, the last, until I get another job. It shall buy a stamp." Then she went away, shutting Paul into loneliness once more. But she had also left a hope behind. He was a braver man for the contact of that sister-life, his fellow-toiler in the Great City. Her courage shamed him. She, too, was poor and lonely, but not a coward. He would be one no longer. Because she had saved his life, he could never again think meanly of it, nor lightly fling it away. At last his heart could join in her sunset song:-- There is yet a day for me! He went up to his poor room presently with a firmer step and a grateful glance across the landing to the door from which light had streamed to beckon him back to hope and life. He sat down in the twilight and began to think. First of all, he must find work or starve. Meanwhile, how was he living? On whose bounty? Mrs. Xerxes was a poor woman. She could not afford to be generous. To whom, then, did he owe it that he was not at this moment a homeless wanderer in the streets? Surely not to that strong, sweet woman to whom he owed his very life! His pale face flushed at the wild thought. Impossible, if her resources ran on anything like the same lines as his. He drew from his pocket the back of an old envelope, pencilled with figures. Madge Barberry's balance-sheet, indeed, compared favourably with this. On the credit side appeared six days' pay at 1s. 2d. per day for board-carrying. The debit side was made up of seven days' food, 2s. 4d.; lodging, 2s. 4d.; soap, 1d.; washing, 3d.; boots, 2s. That was how Paul Vespan lived on seven shillings a week, and but for Madge Barberry, the record might have run "how he died" instead. It was a pathetic little story; but, like Madge Barberry's, too everyday for romance in this city of sharp contrasts. Then he rummaged amongst the contents of a battered cardboard box for the best of his poems, which he had promised to lend Madge. In the search he encountered frequent sharp reminders of past failure. Many a curt editorial note of rejection had drifted in between the loose sheets of MSS. Here, one "regretted that the accompanying manuscript was unsuitable to his pages, and returned it herewith." Or another "presented his compliments to the writer of the accompanying article, which he returned with thanks." But in the strength of the new life which he was facing, these stabs were pin-pricks. He would try once more, as that sweet voice had urged. IV.