e flowers and cruel kindness of those strangers who knew
every corner of her bureau, every word of her letters. Still, it must
be. The Allens would never take her back, and after this, she would be
watched as never before. It must be.

She met Mrs. Palmer on the threshold of what she had begun to call her
home. Mrs. Palmer looked worried and spoke sharply to the untidy
cleaning-woman behind her.

"Now, I do hope I can trust you," she said, "for I can't stay here to
watch. Three new gentlemen for meals, and I have no table for them!
And this whole house to be cleaned! And not a girl to be hired in the
town! I wish I had another room--I could rent it this afternoon."

"You can have mine," said Miss Mary quietly. "I have no money and I
must go."

Mrs. Palmer looked shrewdly at her.

"What made you think you had, before?" she said.

"I had some valuable jewelry--I expected to sell it. It must have been
stolen before I got here. I have nothing here to pay with, but I can
send it back to you from New York."

"Folks rich?" asked Mrs. Palmer.

Miss Mary nodded carelessly. That people should be rich was nothing to
her, and the practiced landlady saw this in a twinkling: no
protestations could have proved so much.

"But you don't get on well, I s'pose," she suggested.

"No. We don't get on well," Miss Mary repeated dully.

"I guess it's often so," said the other. Her placid acceptance of
these facts was very comforting to Miss Mary. She did not realise how
different she herself was from the vague, scared woman of a week ago;
nor how her quiet, well-dressed taciturnity impressed Mrs. Palmer.

"You find this agrees with you here, don't you?" the landlady asked,
tapping her teeth with a key, thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes, I like it here. I would have liked to stay."

"Well, Miss Merry, how'd you like to stay and help me?" said the
landlady. "To tell the truth, I've bit off more than I can chew, as
they say. I never had such a run of boarders, and it's all the girl
can do to look after the other house. What keeps my people is the
cooking, you see, and that I do mostly myself. I'm not fit to talk to
the ladies and gentlemen, with my hair all stringy, and smelling of
cooking. I know it well enough. I had some thought of asking Mrs.
Meeker to go in with me and look after this house and take the head of
the table, and keep the books. But you could do it, if you wanted, and
you'd look more--more--not that