“Six, and kitchen and cupboards and all that sort of contrivances. I asked particularly--went to see the landlord to inquire and see what repairing he would do if we wanted the place. There is a garden of a few yards in the front, too, and one or two rose-bushes. I don't know whether they ever bloom, but if they do, you could wear them in your hair. I thought of that the minute I saw them. The first time I saw you, Dolly, you had a rose in your hair, and I remember thinking I had never seen a flower worn in the same way. Other girls do n't wear things as you wear them somehow or other.” Dolly acknowledged the compliment with a laugh and a coaxing, patronizing little squeeze of his arm.  “You think they don't,” she said, “you affectionate old fellow, that is it. Well, and what did the landlord say? Would he beautify?” “Well, yes, I think he would if the matter was pressed,” said Griffith, returning to the subject with a vigor of enjoyment inspiriting to behold. “And, by the way, Dolly, I saw a small sofa at a place in town which was just the right size to fit into a sort of alcove there is in the front parlor.” “Did you inquire the price?” said Dolly. “Well--no,” cheerfully; “but I can, if you would like to know it. You see, I had n't any money, and did n't know when I should have any, and I felt rather discouraged at the time, and I had an idea the price would make me feel worse, so I did not go in. But it was a comfortable, plump little affair, covered with green,--the sort of thing I should like to have in our house, when we have one. It would be so comfortable to throw one's self down on to after a hard day's work, particularly if one had a headache.” “Yes,” said Dolly; and then, half unconsciously and quite in spite of herself, the ghost of a sigh escaped her. She could not help wishing things were a trifle more real sometimes, bright and whimsically unworldly as she was. “What did that mean?” Griffith asked her. She wakened up, as it were, and looked as happy as ever in an instant, creeping a trifle closer to him in her loving anxiety to blind him to the presence of the little pain in her heart. “Nothing,” she said, briskly. And then--“We don't want much, do we, Griffith?” “No,” said Griffith, a certain grim sense of humor getting the better of him. “And we have n't got it.” She laughed outright at the joke quite enjoyably. Even the grimmest of jocosities wins its measure of respect in Vagabondia, and besides, her laugh removed the impression her sigh might have created. She was herself again at once.