The room was the usual village sitting room: a cylinder heater full of wood at one side of it; a rag carpet, much faded, on the floor; a cabinet organ; a doleful pair of crayon portraits on the wall, one supposedly a baby--a figure dressed like a child of six months, but with a face old and cynical enough to be forty-five. The paper on the wall was of the hideous striped sort, and the chairs were nondescript; but everything was clean--so clean it looked worn more with brushing than with use. A slim woman of fifty, with hollow eyes and a patient smile, came in, wiping her hands on her apron. "How d'ye do? Did you want to see me?" "Yes," said Hartley, smiling. "The fact is, we're book agents, and looking for a place to board." "Well--a--I--yes, I keep boarders." "I was sent here by a brakeman on the midnight express," put in Bert. "Oh, Tom," said the woman, her face clearing. "Tom's always sending us people. Why, yes; I've got room for you, I guess--this room here." She pushed open a folding door leading into what had been her parlor. "You can have this." "And the price?" "Four dollars." "Eight dollars f'r the two of us. All right; we'll be with you a week or two if we have luck." The woman smiled and shut the door. Bert thought how much she looked like his mother in the back--the same tired droop in the shoulders, the same colorless dress, once blue or brown, now a peculiar drab, characterless with much washing. "Excuse me, won't you? I've got to be at my baking; make y'rselves at home." "Now, Jim," said Bert, "I'm going t' stay right here while you go and order our trunks around--just t' pay you off f'r last night." "All right," said Hartley, cheerily going out. After getting warm, Bert sat down at the organ and played a gospel hymn or two from the Moody and Sankey hymnal. He was in the midst of the chorus of "Let your lower lights," etc., when a young woman entered the room. She had a whisk-broom in her hand, and stood a picture of gentle surprise. Bert wheeled about on his stool. "I thought it was Stella," she began. "I'm a book agent," said Bert, rising with his best grace; "I might as well out with it. I'm here to board." "Oh!" said the girl, with some relief. She was very fair and very slight, almost frail. Her eyes were of the sunniest blue, her face pale and somewhat thin, but her lips showed scarlet, and her teeth were fine. Bert liked her and smiled. "A book agent is the next thing to a burglar, I know; but still----" "Oh, I didn't mean that, but I _was_ surprised. When did you come?" "Just a few moments ago. Am I in your way?" he inquired, with elaborate solicitude. "Oh, no! Please go on; you play very well, I think. It is so seldom young men play." "I had to at college; the other fellows all wanted to sing. You play, of course." "When I have time." She sighed. There was a weary droop in her voice; she seemed aware of it, and said more brightly: "You mean Marion, I suppose?" "Yes; I'm in my second year."