ecame humorous. It was pleasant to her to play fairy
godmother to a millionaire's daughter.

"To me suite in the St. Savior," said she. "To a hot tub, dearie, and a
hot dinner, and a warm bed."

In Martha's sitting-room were flowers. She could afford them. On the
bureau in her bedroom was a large photograph of the Poor Boy, in an
eighteen-carat gold frame, very plain and smart.

While Martha was undoing the hooks of her dress Miss Joy stood in front
of the bureau and looked at this photograph.

"Poor Boy," she said presently.

"What's that?" said Martha.

"What's become of him, Martha?"

Martha told her.

"It was all so wicked," said the girl.

"Wicked," said Martha, "was no name for it. All his friends to believe
he'd do a thing like that! I could skin them alive, the lot of them!"

"I was one of his friends, Martha."

"I make no war on women," said Martha.

"I say I was one of his friends--but I never believed he did it--I mean
how could he, and why should he?"

"Perhaps you wrote to tell him you believed in him!"

"I wish I had," said the girl, "but I thought everybody would, and then
you know we had a sort of a misunderstanding; and I was going to, and
then my father's troubles got so bad that he couldn't hide them from me,
and we used to talk them over all night sometimes, and I couldn't think
about anybody else's troubles.--Is he up there all alone?"

"There's the last hook. And now I'll draw a tub."

Miss Joy undressed herself to the music of water roaring under high
pressure into a deep porcelain tub. She was no longer hungry, for she
had had a glass of milk on arriving at the hotel, but she was very tired
and a little dizzy in her head.

As is the custom with girls who have been brought up with maids to
dress and undress them, she flung her clothes upon a chair in a
disorderly heap, and was no more embarrassed at being naked before
Martha than if Martha had been a piece of furniture.

"Come and talk to me, Martha," she said, "while I soak."

So Martha sat by the tub as by a bedside, and Miss Joy with a sigh of
comfort lay at length in the hot water and they talked.

"Is he up there all alone?"

"He is now. The housework was too heavy for one old woman. He sent me to
New York to find a helper. But the wages don't make up for the
loneliness in the young biddy's mind--in what she is plazed to call her
mind--and I'm five days lookin' about and nothing done."

"Wages?" sighed Miss Joy. "T