He took a note-book from under his pillow and commenced to scribble. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll sound him about giving up his lodgings.”!

“Braised,” suggested Mary. “There is an old Hindoo proverb,” he said: “That when a man and woman love they dig a fountain down to God.”

“No, dear,” answered Mary. “It’s only one or two who have nowhere else to go.” “There wasn’t much difference, so far as I could see, between them and most of us,” answered the little old lady. “You’re not married, dear,” she continued, glancing at Joan’s ungloved hand, “but people must have a deal of patience when they have to live with us for twenty-four hours a day. You see, little things we do and say without thinking, and little ways we have that we do not notice ourselves, may all the time be irritating to other people.” “I know,” whispered Joan. “I’ve been there, too. I knew you were doing it, though I didn’t quite know how—till the other day. I wouldn’t think. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t. I know all you can say. I’ve been listening to it. It was right of you to want to give it all up to me for his sake. But it would be wrong of me to take it. I don’t quite see why. I can’t explain it. But I mustn’t. So you see it would be no good.”