and her “Daily Thoughts”        reading.     

       Sidney sat alone and viewed her world from this new and pleasant angle. She could see the garden and the whitewashed fence with its morning-glories, and at the same time, by turning her head, view the Wilson house across the Street. She looked mostly at the Wilson house.     

       K. Le Moyne was upstairs in his room. She could hear him tramping up and down, and catch, occasionally, the bitter-sweet odor of his old brier pipe.     

       All the small loose ends of her life were gathered up—except Joe. She would have liked to get that clear, too. She wanted him to know how she felt about it all: that she liked him as much as ever, that she did not want to hurt him. But she wanted to make it clear, too, that she knew now that she would never marry him. She thought she would never marry; but, if she did, it would be a man doing a man's work in the world. Her eyes turned wistfully to the house across the Street.     

       K.'s lamp still burned overhead, but his restless tramping about had ceased. He must be reading—he read a great deal. She really ought to go to bed. A neighborhood cat came stealthily across the Street, and stared up at the little balcony with green-glowing eyes.     

       “Come on, Bill Taft,” she said. “Reginald is gone, so you are welcome. Come on.”      

       Joe Drummond, passing the house for the fourth time that evening, heard her voice, and hesitated uncertainly on the pavement.     

       “That you, Sid?” he called softly.     

       “Joe! Come in.”      

       “It's late; I'd better get home.”      

       The misery in his voice hurt her.     

       “I'll not keep you long. I want to talk to you.”      

       He came slowly toward her.     

       “Well?” he said hoarsely.     

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