tinants," she said, "but av ut's a gir-rul ye're seekin', sure they's two
av thim in there, an' both out, I'm thinkin'."

I pushed a note for Nelly under the door she indicated--it bore the cards
of "Miss Helen Winship" and "Miss Kathryn Reid"--and hurried away to look
up this gem of a hall bedroom where I am writing; you could wear it on a
watch chain, but I pay $3 a week for it. The landlady would board me for
$8, but regular dinners at restaurants are only twenty-five cents; good,
too. And anybody can breakfast for fifteen.

Then I went back to Union Square, where I hung about, looking at the
statues. Once I walked as far as Tammany Hall and rushed back again to
watch Helen's door. Finally I sat down on a bench from which I could see
her windows; and there in the brief December sunlight, with the little
oasis around me green even in winter, and the roar of Dead Man's Curve
just far enough away, I suppose I spent almost the happiest moments of my
life.

I was looking at Nelly's picture, taken in cap and gown just before she
graduated last June. My Nelly! Nelly as she used to be before this strange
thing happened; eager-eyed, thin with over-study and rapid growth. Nelly,
whose bright face, swept by so many lights and shadows of expression,
sensitive to so many shifting moods, I loved and yearned for. Nearly six
months we'd been apart, but at last I had followed to New York to claim
her. As I sat smiling at the dream pictures the dear face evoked, my brain
was busy with thoughts of the new home we would together build. I'd hoard
every penny, I planned; I'd walk to save car-fare, practice all
economies--

Wasn't that a face at her window?