Salome had been thinking rapidly during the last few minutes. If she was believed to have perished, why not let it go so? Doubtless Madame Winthrop and Evelyn had already seen this account, and knew that she had been an inmate of that ill-fated house. They would, in all probability, go to inquire regarding the truth of the matter, and would recognize the description that would be given of her. She wished to cut herself off from the family entirely—she never could resume her relations with them; and what better opportunity could she have than this? But what name should she henceforth assume? Not that of Howland—not the one she had previously discarded, for she was more anxious than ever to guard her identity, and yet she could not bear to take one that did not belong to her, for Salome was very conscientious and would not allow herself to speak falsely. It would not matter much what this woman knew her by—why should she not use the one that Dr. Winthrop had bestowed upon her for a little while?—and before she could give the matter a second thought the name had escaped her lips: “Winthrop.” “That’s a good name, miss; I used to know several Winthrops; but that was long ago, when I lived in Boston,” said her companion. “I believe there are some swell people here in New York by that name, too; but I suppose you’re no relation to them, or you wouldn’t have been staying in that lodging-house.” “I am an orphan,” Salome replied sadly, but wondering what the woman would say if she knew the truth about the relationship between those “swell people” and herself. “Poor child!” was the sympathetic response. “Then you have to look out for yourself. What do you do for a living?” “I am a nurse,” the young girl said. “A nurse!” exclaimed the other, astonished. “You look more fit to be a patient than a nurse.” “I have not been very well, and I have been resting for a while; but I must try and find some employment,” Salome answered. Then, to change the subject, she asked, “And now, won’t you please tell me what I may call you?” “My name’s Wood.” “Well, then, Mrs. Wood, please tell me if I am not crowding you by being here? Do you not need this room for your own use?” “No, indeed, Miss Winthrop. Don’t you trouble yourself about that. You’re most welcome to it as long as you need it. John and I have the one next to it, and the children sleep in the trundle-bed; and I guess I could afford to crowd a little, even if I had to, rather than let a poor homeless girl go into the streets,” and Mrs. Wood regarded the occupant of the bed with a very tender glance. “Thank you,” said Salome. “Then I will trespass upon your kindness for a day or two longer, and if you will help me to-morrow about getting something to wear, I shall be very grateful. Of course everything I had was burned.”