"Oh, yes!" she responded, turning her eyes to the fire. "I have lived there all my life, until--until quite recently--until I came here." She was silent for a moment or so. This old man was the only person she knew in Brown's Buildings; they had made acquaintance on the stairs, and they had now and again borrowed little things--sugar, salt, a candle--from each other. She liked him, and--she was a woman and only twenty-two--she craved for some companionship, someone on whom she could bestow the gentle word and the smile which all good women and true long to give. At this moment she wanted to tell him something of her past life; but she hesitated; for when one is poor and alone in the world, one shrinks keenly from speaking of the happiness that is past. But the longing was too much for her. "I used to live in Berkshire." She paused, and stifled a sigh. "My father bought a house there; we had plenty of money--I mean, at that time." She coloured and was silent again for a moment. "My father was a business man and very lucky--for a time. Then luck changed. When he died, nearly six months ago, we found that he was ruined; he left very little, only a few pounds." The old man nodded again. "I understand," he said, with neither awkward sympathy nor intrusive curiosity. "I was an only child, and suddenly found myself alone in the world. Oh, of course, there were relatives and friends, and some of them were kind, oh, very kind"--once more Mr. Clendon nodded, as if he understood--"but--but I felt that I would rather make my own way. I dare say it was foolish; there have been times when I have been tempted to--to accept help--throw up the sponge," she smiled; "but--well, Mr. Clendon, most of us dislike charity, I suppose." "Some of us," he admitted, dryly. "You found it hard work at first? Sometimes, when I hear stories like yours, Miss Grant, when I pass young girls, thin, white-faced, poorly-clothed, going to their work, with the look of old men on their faces--I mean old men, not women, mind!--I ask myself whether there is not some special place, with a special kind of punishment, appointed for selfish fathers, who have consigned their daughters to life-long toil and misery. I beg your pardon!" "No, I don't think my father was selfish," said Celia, more to herself than to her listener. "Not consciously so; he was sanguine, too sanguine; he lived in the moment----" "I know," said Mr. Clendon. "Some men are born like that, and can't help themselves. Well, what did you do?"