"You have my sympathy," the girl said with a pleasing smile, "I could wish a woman foe of mine no harder fate. Anybody can see that you have not been used to this kind of thing--you are too recently a commander to know the bitterness of being commanded by the _canaille_ we frequently have to deal with. We cannot all meet our misfortunes as cheerfully as Connie does. But you will learn your lesson in time. Tell me, have you heard anything as to those last drawings of mine?" "I have the money for them at any rate," Connie said without looking at the speaker. "Mr. Scudamore was very kind." Grace Cameron drew a deep breath of relief, a wave of pink rose to her cheeks. "They were dreadful," she whispered. "But I was so ill on Monday and Tuesday that I had to drag myself to the work. My hand shakes terribly still, and I have some kind of a commission that I must finish tomorrow. It is a design for the cover of a new penny weekly. I have the scheme sketched out, but I am afraid that I shall not be able to finish it. And I know that my mother is in great need of a few pounds. How hard it is to be like this." The last few words rang out passionately. Connie patted the speaker's shoulder. "Don't despair," she said, "give me the rough design and I will put in the colour. Take at least five hours! Well, what of that. Give us some supper presently--it matters little what time we get home in the morning. Mrs. Grundy has no terrors for the true and tried children of Bohemia." Connie's cheerfulness seemed to be unflagging and unfailing. She had no great aptitude for the brush, but she had the great gift of patience. The hours wore on, supper came and went, and presently a clock somewhere struck the hour of two. Then at last Connie held up the coloured design in triumph. "There," she cried, "I guess they will be satisfied with that. I wish I had some of your boldness and originality, Gracie. I think we've done it this time. What a shame it is that good stuff should go for so little money! And now I really must be off. Mary looks tired to death. I'll post this for you, if you like." Mary was tired and worn out, but she was not thinking of herself as she dragged along by Connie's side. She had learned a great deal in the last four-and-twenty hours. In a vague, disturbed way she felt ashamed of herself. She did not notice the little cry that broke from Connie as they stood before the house where their rooms were. The place was all in pitch darkness, a litter of straw lay before the door. As Connie applied her latchkey and pushed back the door the house sounded curiously hollow. Footfalls clanked on a bare floor. Connie struck a match and held it aloft. "The house is empty!" she cried, "the people have gone. These things happen with the struggling poor when they are threatened over their rent. Let us go and see if they have packed our belongings in the confusion." The little sitting-room was empty of everything, the bedroom the same; nothing was left.