“I’m so afraid he’ll find me that I do be hearing sounds all the time!” she said. “Ain’t that bureau something elegant? I’ll have my own bit of a home and never see him again.” Then, as McGibney came out to the kitchen, shutting the front-room door behind him, she asked; “Ain’t that sounds of excitement in the street? Maybe there’s a fire!” Clara ran to the front room and pretended to look out the window. She had heard nothing; it was only a pretext to get back to the disgraceful old wreck. On her own hands and knees she had earned it. “Ain’t it nice!” said Clara, ecstatically. “I got my eye on a gilt-framed mirror I’ll buy next week. It’s nice, ain’t it?” Clara went away. Back in five minutes. “I guess maybe I left my rolled-up apron in the front room.” Whether she had or not, she stood looking at the bureau; turned to go; looked again; moved it to get a better light on it; stepped toward the door; paused and looked back. “I bought that!” And she went away, leaving McGibney standing in the front room. With an expression of deep melancholy he stood looking at the clumsy, broken bureau. He looked at his best furniture surrounding it—fragile, gilded chairs, on a big rug better than any other rug in the neighborhood—a sideboard with French plate glass in it; the very fine curtains. He was a log-shaped man, and not remarkably æsthetic, but his eye was sorely offended. “Oh, well,” said the melancholy, log-shaped man, “if us poor folks don’t help each other, who will?” And the eye of Mrs. McGibney was equally offended; but Mrs. McGibney was not melancholy, for here was an opportunity for her to bustle. Out with the sofa and around in front of the bureau! The standing lamp placed where it would help to conceal the bureau. To hide the bureau was quite a problem, but Mrs. McGibney rejoiced in it. She bustled. The next Saturday night Clara bought a wicker rocking-chair. Fearful-looking old rocking-chair! Interstices of it filled with white paint; all paint worn off wherever arms, legs, and backs had rested on it. “It’s nice, ain’t it?” said Clara, dreamily, fondly. McGibney sat straight, as if he had just dug through the oil-cloth and feared reprimanding. Then he fell back limply. “Yes, ve-ry,” he said, without enthusiasm. “It’ll fill out your front room nice, while I’m waiting for it, won’t it?” “Oh, ye-es; it’ll be ve-ry nice.”