There was another little scene taking place at this time in which we are interested. In the lodging of Mrs. Craig--not two rooms now, but one, with a decrepit cook-stove in one corner and a ragged quilt hung across another corner to serve as a partition between George's bedroom and the rest of the space--a silent woman was cooking a meager supper. A very silent woman was Mrs. Craig at this time, even more so than formerly. The room was hot and close with the odour of cooking. Into this home, at a little before six, came Lizzie Bigelow, grown rather more mature in appearance since we last saw her, of a rounder figure and a brighter colour. She was in good spirits to-night. By some miracle she was as fresh and healthy as if she had been given nothing but the best of food, the purest air and plenty of time for exercise; and to the mother it seemed as if a whiff of fresh air had come with her into the room. “Well, Lizzie, you are back early.” “Yes; I got off at half-past five. Where is George?” “He has to work late to-night.” “Oh, yes; I forgot. You are tired, ma. You sit down awhile and let me finish the supper.” She was throwing aside her hat and jacket as she spoke, and she smiled at her mother in a way that brought an expression of gratefulness and surprise to the face of the older woman. “Now you just sit down awhile. I'm going to get supper ready to-night.” It appeared that she really meant it; and the mother, after a little protesting, made way for her by the stove. Indeed, it promised to be quite a jolly evening, if only George could get home in time to share it. Even without him, what with a merry recital of the funny things that had happened at the office during the day, and with other talk of an equally unusual good humour, Mrs. Craig was almost bewildered. She knew only too well how unexpectedly Lizzie's high spirits could turn corners, how petulant this merry, black-eyed girl could be. After supper, announcing that she was going to get a breath of fresh air, Lizzie went out, first ingeniously smuggling a small package outside the door under pretense of opening it for air. Next she put on her hat and jacket and stood for a moment smiling; finally she bent over her mother and kissed her, an act so surprising that Mrs. Craig flushed with pleasure. Then, with a nervous little laugh and a fling of her skirts, she had whisked out and the door was closed. There was a pause at the top of the stairs while she fumbled in her pocket for a folded slip of paper which she tucked silently into the crack of the door; but at last she was off, running down the stairs with her bundle held tightly under her jacket, and hurrying across the street to avoid meeting George in case he should be returning home at this hour. *****