rest. With the physicians and regular callers the inmates
were familiar enough, but the sight of a stranger revived in their
debilitated minds old recollections, thoughts of the outer world, a
world of sunshine, joy, and liberty of which they themselves had once
been a part and which they had abandoned all hope of ever seeing again.
At last, unable to control his curiosity any longer, the old man stopped
in front of the lawyer and inquired respectfully:

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

"No, thanks," replied Mr. Ricaby. There was something in the appearance
of the old man that interested him, and kindly he asked: "How long have
you been here?"

"Nearly ten years, sir--on and off. I was an inmate here, sir, when Dr.
Spencer--Mr. Spencer's father--was the proprietor."

"Are you still a--a--an inmate?"

"No, sir--not so to speak. I'm a waiter, sir--my old profession. After I
got better I went back to my old position at Delmonico's, but I couldn't
stand the excitement. You wouldn't believe it, sir, but waiters are
frightfully tried. We've got to know just what people want, who don't
know what they want themselves, and who complain if we make the
slightest mistake. Don't they make mistakes, too? Don't they point with
their knives and forks while they talk in a vulgar, loud voice with
their mouths full of food? Don't they put vinegar on their oysters and
ice in their claret? Don't they drink champagne with fish? Don't they
expect a half portion to be enough for two? And, cruellest act of all,
they talk to us in a language they call French. They blame us when the
cashier makes mistakes. They blame us when the cook makes mistakes. They
blame us when their own digestions make mistakes. They forget that we're
human. And, I tell you, sir, it gets on our nerves at last. It's bound
to." Suddenly the electric indicator buzzed loudly. The old man started
nervously and glanced up.

"It's the dining room, sir. Excuse me, sir."

Before he could obey the summons a bell sounded violently from the same
direction.

"All right--all right," he cried. "I heard it the first time."

He toddled off, grumbling. A moment later the small, narrow door opened
and Mrs. Johnson, the head attendant, entered, followed by Paula.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Every minute of the day and night, for three long, weary weeks, that had
seemed like years, Paula had prayed for deliverance from what was little
better than a living death. At first, when she wa