tening, sensitive to every little sound. The silence was almost
more dreadful than the stealthy unknown noises of the night. Vague
shapes seemed to hover over her bed. Somehow to-night she dreaded them
more. She was sixteen years old, yet there abided with her the terror
of the child in the dark.

She cried out in her heart--why was she alone? It was so dark, so
silent. Mother! Mother!... She would never--never say her prayers
again!

The brazen-tongued mill clock clanged the hour of two, when shuffling
uncertain footsteps sounded on the hollow stairs. Rose raised her head
to listen. With slow, weary, dragging steps her father came in. Then
she lay back on the pillow with a sigh of relief.

CHAPTER X

In the following week Rose learned that work was not to be had for the
asking. Her love of pretty things and a desire to be independent of
her father had occupied her mind to the exclusion of a consideration
of what might be demanded of a girl seeking a position. She had no
knowledge of stenography or bookkeeping; her handwriting was poor.
Moreover, references from former employers were required and as she
had never been employed, she was asked for recommendations from the
principal of her school. These, of course, she could not supply. The
stores of the better class had nothing to offer her except to put her
name on the waiting-list.

Finally Rose secured a place in a second-rate establishment on Main
Street. The work was hard; it necessitated long hours and continual
standing on her feet. Rose was not rugged enough to accustom herself
to the work all at once, and she was discharged. This disheartened
her, but she kept on trying to find other employment.

One day in the shopping district, some one accosted her. She looked up
to see a young man, slim, elegant, with a curl of his lips she
remembered. He raised his hat.

"How do you do, Mr. Swann," she answered.

"Rose, are you on the way home?"

"Yes."

"Let's go down this side street," he said, throwing away his
cigarette. "I've been looking for you."

They turned the corner. Rose felt strange to be walking alone with
him, but she was not embarrassed. He had danced with her once. And she
knew his friend Hardy Mackay.

"What're you crying about?" he said.

"I'm not."

"You have been then. What for?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Come, tell me."

"I--I've been disappointed."

"What about?" He was persistent, and Rose felt that he must be used to
having