They lived together four months, Yvonne in her comfortable rooms, Joyce in his attic overhead. At first she had been helpless, requiring much aid both from Joyce and from the landlady, over whom she had cast her accustomed charm; but with the early spring weather she recovered full use of her limbs, and strength enough to fight her small battles for herself. To Joyce it had been a time of consolation in many black moods. He dreaded the arrival of the New Zealand mail, which he calculated would bring Yvonne her freedom. It was almost a relief when he assured himself by enquiries that no news had come from the Bishop. He had another month of Yvonne’s companionship to look forward to. When that passed, however, and the second mail from New Zealand proved as fruitless as the first, he was forced to look at matters from a practical point of view. He had already far exceeded the original advance he had made to Yvonne. Under the assurance that he would be reimbursed, he had not scrupled to spend money freely on little luxuries and comforts. At the present rate of living, therefore, another two months would see him at the end of his resources, which included money that he had received in advance for the copyright of his book. His current income from occasional journalism was ridiculously small. The new novel was only half-way towards completion. Poverty stared him in the face. As a last resource he went to Everard’s bankers, but only to learn that his cousin had withdrawn his account. He found Yvonne anxiously awaiting the result of this errand. As he entered, she rose impulsively, scattering scissors and spool of cotton from her lap. She read his failure in his face. “What is to be done?” she asked, when he had finished his report. “I don’t know,” replied Joyce, truthfully. He looked at her, puzzled and distressed. “You must pay yourself out of the furniture and let me go,” said Yvonne. “Where would you go to?” “I don’t know,” said Yvonne in her turn. At the picture of helpless dismay Joyce broke into a laugh. “Oh, how _can_ you laugh, when I owe you all this money?” she said, with a choke in her voice. “Because I am glad, Yvonne, that fate seems to compel me to go on looking after you.” “But how can you go on? How can I burden you any further?” “Don’t talk about burdens,” he said gently. “You repay me twice over for what little I have given you.” “But the furniture is not worth all that,” said Yvonne. “What has the furniture to do with it?” “Why it is yours, is n’t it?” “How, mine?” “The bill of sale,” replied Yvonne seriously. “Oh, you dear little goose,” cried Joyce, “you don’t suppose I am going to sell you up!” “Why not--if you need the money? The furniture is all your own.” “How can it be when I don’t claim it?”