s is the last barrier between her and self-respect.

A letter lay on the table; it was one from the Museum lad, Reggie Rex,
thanking her, with all the fervency of youth, for the words she had
written in praise of his story; the hope, the encouragement she had
implanted in his breast. She envied him, as she envied everyone who had
enough to purchase a loaf, a glass of milk. Then the incident in which
he had figured passed from her mind. The strains of Mr. Clendon's violin
stole up to her; but that brought no peace, no joy; to enjoy good music
when one is starving is an impossibility; the sounds irritated her, and
she was glad when they ceased.

Presently she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a knock
came at her door. She rose, painfully, wearily, and moved with
difficulty; for the floor seemed to rock under her, the room to swing
round. It was Mr. Clendon.

"I'm sorry to trouble you----" he began; then he saw her face, and,
closing the door behind him, took her hand in his. "You are ill," he
said.

To attempt concealment she felt would be impossible; worse, ridiculous.

"Not ill; but very hungry," she said, forcing a smile.

He led her to the chair, and she sank into it, turning her face away
from him. He glanced round the room quickly, took in its emptiness, the
black, cheerless grate, her attitude of utter dejection; then, without a
word, he went downstairs. To Celia, hours seemed to elapse after his
departure, but it was only a few minutes before he came up again, with
bread and other things; but it was the bread only that Celia saw. With
all her might and main, she strove to eat slowly, indifferently, the
food he pressed upon her; and as she ate, the tears of shame and of
relief coursed down her wan cheeks. He had brought fuel also; and, while
she was eating, he seemed to devote all his attention to the making of
the fire; when it was burning brightly, and she was leaning back, with
her hands covering her face, he said, gently, reproachfully:

"Why didn't you come to me--why didn't you tell me?"

"I was ashamed," she said. "I knew you, too, were poor." She tried to
laugh, but the laugh was choked in her throat.

"Not too poor to help a friend," he said. "I think you have been very
wicked." He tried to speak sternly; but the "My poor child!" that broke
from him declared his sympathy. "You have lost your situation?"

"Yes; he died. And I can't find anything else," said Celia, trying to
speak ca