motor-car; and the chauffeur gave him his bearskin to put on, for he
was sopping wet. And it was only three days ago."

"What a fool!" said Hetty, shortly.

"Oh, the chauffeur wasn't wet," breathed Cecilia. "And he drove the
car away very nicely."

"I mean _you_," said Hetty. "For not giving him your address."

"I never give my address to chauffeurs," said Cecilia, haughtily.

"I wish we had one," said Hetty, disconsolately.

"What for?"

"For the stew, of course--oh, I mean an onion."

Hetty took a pitcher and started to the sink at the end of the hall.

A young man came down the stairs from above just as she was opposite
the lower step. He was decently dressed, but pale and haggard. His
eyes were dull with the stress of some burden of physical or mental
woe. In his hand he bore an onion--a pink, smooth, solid, shining
onion as large around as a ninety-eight-cent alarm-clock.

Hetty stopped. So did the young man. There was something
Joan of Arc-ish, Herculean, and Una-ish in the look and pose
of the shop-lady--she had cast off the rôles of Job and
Little-Red-Riding-Hood. The young man stopped at the foot of the