"You must have looked pretty well frazzled out to the little hero
boy."

"It's been three days," moaned the miniature-painter, "and he hasn't
found me yet."

"Extend the time," said Hetty. "This is a big town. Think of how many
girls he might have to see soaked in water with their hair down before
he would recognize you. The stew's getting on fine--but oh, for an
onion! I'd even use a piece of garlic if I had it."

The beef and potatoes bubbled merrily, exhaling a mouth-watering savor
that yet lacked something, leaving a hunger on the palate, a haunting,
wistful desire for some lost and needful ingredient.

"I came near drowning in that awful river," said Cecilia, shuddering.

"It ought to have more water in it," said Hetty; "the stew, I mean.
I'll go get some at the sink."

"It smells good," said the artist.

"That nasty old North River?" objected Hetty. "It smells to me like
soap factories and wet setter-dogs--oh, you mean the stew. Well, I
wish we had an onion for it. Did he look like he had money?"

"First, he looked kind," said Cecilia. "I'm sure he was rich; but that
matters so little. When he drew out his bill-folder to pay the cab-man
you couldn't help seeing hundreds and thousands of dollars in it. And
I looked over the cab doors and saw him leave the ferry station in a