He returned, sitting on the floor beside the couch adoring her and stroking her bare arms. "Who are you?" inquired Mrs. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good.
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