door by Mr. Dowson, gave way to gloom. He stood for so long with
one foot on the step and the other on the mat that Mr. Dowson, who
disliked draughts, got impatient.

[Illustration: "Mr. Foss bade them good-night suddenly."]

"You'll catch cold, Charlie," he said at last.

"That's what I'm trying to do," said Mr. Foss; "my death o' cold. Then I
sha'n't get five years for bigamy," he added bitterly.

"Cheer up," said Mr. Dowson; "five years ain't much out of a lifetime;
and you can't expect to 'ave your fun without--"

He watched the retreating figure of Mr. Foss as it stamped its way down
the street, and closing the door returned to the kitchen to discuss
palmistry and other sciences until bedtime.

Mrs. Dowson saw husband and daughter off to work in the morning, and
after washing up the breakfast things drew her chair up to the kitchen
fire and became absorbed in memories of the past. All the leading
incidents in Flora's career passed in review before her. Measles,
whooping-cough, school-prizes, and other things peculiar to the age of
innocence were all there. In her enthusiasm she nearly gave her a
sprained ankle which had belonged to her sister. Still shaking her head
over her mistake, she drew Flora's latest portrait carefully from its
place in the album, and putting on her hat and jacket went round to make
a call in Peter Street.

By the time Flora returned home Mrs. Dowson appeared to have forgotten
the arrangement made the night before, and, being reminded by her
daughter, questioned whether any good could come of attempts to peer into
the future. Mr. Dowson was still more emphatic, but his objections,
being recognized by both ladies as trouser-pocket ones, carried no
weight. It ended in Flora going off with half a crown in her glove and
an urgent request from her father to make it as difficult as possible for
the sibyl by giving a false name and address.

No name was asked for, however, as Miss Dowson was shown into the untidy
little back room on the first floor, in which the sorceress ate, slept,
and received visitors. She rose from an old rocking-chair as the visitor
entered, and, regarding her with a pair of beady black eyes, bade her sit
down.

"Are you the fortune-teller?" inquired the girl.

"Men call me so," was the reply.

"Yes, but are you?" persisted Miss Dowson, who inherited her father's
fondness for half crowns.

"Yes," said the other, in a more natural voice.

She took the g