eariness would reinforce the waning
power of the chloral.

Night had now closed in, and the roar of traffic in Forty-second Street
was dying out. As complete darkness fell on the square the lingering
occupants of the benches rose and dispersed; but now and then a stray
figure, hurrying homeward, struck across the path where Lily sat, looming
black for a moment in the white circle of electric light. One or two of
these passers-by slackened their pace to glance curiously at her lonely
figure; but she was hardly conscious of their scrutiny.

Suddenly, however, she became aware that one of the passing shadows
remained stationary between her line of vision and the gleaming asphalt;
and raising her eyes she saw a young woman bending over her.

"Excuse me--are you sick?--Why, it's Miss Bart!" a half-familiar voice
exclaimed.

Lily looked up. The speaker was a poorly-dressed young woman with a
bundle under her arm. Her face had the air of unwholesome refinement
which ill-health and over-work may produce, but its common prettiness was
redeemed by the strong and generous curve of the lips.

"You don't remember me," she continued, brightening with the pleasure of
recognition, "but I'd know you anywhere, I've thought of you such a lot.
I guess my folks all know your name by heart. I was one of the girls at
Miss Farish's club--you helped me to go to the country that time I had
lung-trouble. My name's Nettie Struther. It was Nettie Crane then--but I
daresay you don't remember that either."

Yes: Lily was beginning to remember. The episode of Nettie Crane's timely
rescue from disease had been one of the most satisfying incidents of her
connection with Gerty's charitable work. She had furnished the girl with
the means to go to a sanatorium in the mountains: it struck her now with
a peculiar irony that the money she had used had been Gus Trenor's.

She tried to reply, to assure the speaker that she had not forgotten; but
her voice failed in the effort, and she felt herself sinking under a
great wave of physical weakness. Nettie Struther, with a startled
exclamation, sat down and slipped a shabbily-clad arm behind her back.

"Why, Miss Bart, you ARE sick. Just lean on me a little till you feel
better."

A faint glow of returning strength seemed to pass into Lily from the
pressure of the supporting arm.

"I'm only tired--it is nothing," she found voice to say in a moment; and
then, as she met the timid appeal of her companion'