"Oh, yes, yes," cried Mildred, "I could not live here at all. Let
us go back."

While returning, her father showed her apartments in other tenements
for which rents of ten to sixteen dollars were charged, and she
saw that she would not obtain any more in space and light than for
half the money in the old house, which had been built when that
part of the island was open country.

"Forgive me, papa," she said, smiling, "that I shivered a little
at the first plunge. We will go to the old house and stay there
until we can do better. It was once evidently a beautiful home,
and I believe that within it we can make a happy home, if we will.
These other tenements were never homes, and I don't see how they
ever could be. They are angular, patent, human packing-boxes,
which mock at the very idea of home coziness and privacy. They were
never built for homes, they were built to rent. In the old house
I noticed that a blank wall near will prevent people staring into
our windows, and the space has not been so cut up but that we can
keep ourselves somewhat secluded."

Next to a quiet way of earning money, Mildred coveted seclusion
beyond everything else. There was one deep hope that fed her life.
Her father would work his way up into affluence, and she again could
welcome Vinton Arnold to her own parlor. Happiness would bring him
better health, and the time would come when he could choose and act
as his heart dictated. With woman's pathetic fortitude and patience
she would hope and wait for that day. But not for the world must
his proud mother know to what straits they were driven, and she
meant that the old house should become a hiding-place as well as