She wheeled Jack out into the shady, vine-covered piazza, and brought him a pile of things for him to amuse himself with in her absence.

"Ring your bell for Mena if you need anything else," she said. "I will be back before the sun gets around to this side of the house, maybe in less than an hour."

He caught at her dress with a detaining grasp, and a troubled look came over his face.

"O sister! I just thought of it. If you do get that place, will I have to stay here all day by myself?"

"O no," she answered. "Mena can wheel you around the garden, and wait on you; and I will think of all sorts of things to keep you busy. Then the old ladies will be here, and I am sure they will be kind to you. I'll be home at noon, and we'll have lovely long evenings together."

"But if those people come, Mena will have so much more to do, she'll never have any time to wheel me. Couldn't you take me with you?" he asked, wistfully. "I wouldn't be a bit of bother. I'd take my books and study, or look out of the window all the time, and keep just as quiet! Please ask 'em if I can't come too, sister!"

It was hard to resist the pleading tone.

"Maybe they'll not want me," answered Bethany. "I'll have to settle that matter before making any promises. But never mind, dear, we'll arrange it in some way."

It was a warm July morning. As Bethany walked slowly toward the business portion of the town, several groups of girls passed her, evidently on their way to work, from the few words she overheard in passing. Most of them looked tired and languid, as if the daily routine of such a treadmill existence was slowly draining their vitality. Two or three had a pert, bold air, that their contact with business life had given them. One was chewing gum and repeating in a loud voice some conversation she had had with her "boss."

Bethany's heart sank as she suddenly realized that she was about to join the great working-class of which this ill-bred girl was a member. Not that she had any of the false pride that pushes a woman who is an independent wage-winner to a lower social scale than one whom circumstances have happily hedged about with home walls; but she had recalled at that moment some of her acquaintances who would do just such a thing. In their short-sighted, self-assumed superiority, they could make no discrimination between the girl at the cigar-stand, who flirted with her customer, and the girl in the school-room, who taught her pupils more from her inherent refinement and gentleness than from their text-books.

She had remembered that Belle Romney had said to her one day, as they drove past a great factory where the girls were swarming out at noon: "Do you know, Bethany dear, I would rather lie down and die than have to work in such a place. You can't imagine what a horror I have of being obliged to work for a living, no matter in what way. I would feel utterly disgraced to come down to such a thing; but I suppose these poor creatures are so accustomed to it they never mind it."

Bethany's eyes blazed. She knew Belle Romney's position was due entirely to the tolerance of a distant relative. She longed to answer vehemently: "Well, I would starve before I would deliberately sit down to be a willing dependent on the charity of my friends. It's only a species of genteel pauperism, and none the less despicable because of the purple and fine linen it flaunts in."

She had not made the speech, however. Belle leaned back in the carriage, and folded her daintily-gloved hands, as they passed the factory-girls, with an air of complacency that amused Bethany then. It nettled her now to remember it.

She turned into the street where the Clifton Block stood, an imposing building, whose first two floors were occupied by lawyers' offices. Porter & Edmunds were on the second floor. The elevator-boy showed her the room. The door stood open, exposing an inviting interior, for the walls were lined with books, and the rugs and massive furniture bespoke taste as well as wealth.

An elderly gentleman, with his heels on the window-sill and his back to the door, was vigorously smoking. He was waiting for a backwoods client, who had an early engagement. His feet came to the floor with sudden force, and his cigar was tossed hastily out of the window when he heard Bethany's voice saying, timidly,

"May I come in, Mr. Edmunds?"

He came forward with old-school gallantry. It was not often his office was brightened by such a visitor.

"Why, it is Miss Hallam!" he exclaimed, in surprise, secretly wondering what had brought her to his office.

He had met her often in her father's house, and had seen her the center of many an admiring group at parties and receptions. She had always impressed him as having the air of one who had been surrounded by only the most refined influences of life. He thought her unusually charming this morning, all in black, with such a timid, almost childish expression in her big, gray eyes.

"Take this seat by the window, Miss Hallam," he said, cordially. "I hope this cigar smoke does not annoy you. I had no idea I should have the honor of entertaining a lady, or I should not have indulged."

"Didn't Mr. Marion tell you I was coming this morning?" asked Bethany, in some embarrassment.

"No, not a word. I believe he said something to Mr. Porter about a typewriter-girl that wants a place, but I am sure he never mentioned that you intended doing us the honor of calling."

Bethany smiled faintly.

"I am the typewriter-girl that wants the place," she answered.

"You!" ejaculated Mr. Edmunds, standing up in his surprise, and beginning to stutter as he always did when much excited. "You! w'y-w'y-w'y, you don't say so!" he finally managed to blurt out.

"What is it that is so astonishing?" asked Bethany, beginning to be amused. "Do you think it is presumptuous in me to aspire to such a position? I assure you I have a very fair speed."

"No," answered Mr. Edmunds, "it's not that; but I never any more thought of your going out in the world to make a living than a-a-a pet canary," he added, in confusion.

He seated himself again, and began tapping on the table with a paper-knife.

"Can't you paint, or give music lessons, or teach French?" he asked, half impatiently. "A girl brought up as you have been has no business jostling up against the world, especially the part of a world one sees in the court-room."

Bethany looked at him gravely.

"Yes," she answered, "I can do all those things after a fashion, but none of them well enough to measure up to my standard of proficiency, which is a high one. I do understand stenography, and I am confident I can do thorough, first-class work. I think, too, Mr. Edmunds, that it is a mistaken idea that the girl who has had the most sheltered home-life is the one least fitted to go into such places. Papa used to say we are like the planets; we carry our own atmosphere with us. I am sure one may carry the same personality into a reporter's stand that she would into a drawing-room. We need not necessarily change with our surroundings."

As she spoke, a slight tinge of pink flushed her cheeks, and she unconsciously raised her chin a trifle haughtily. Mr. Edmunds looked at her admiringly, and then made a gallant bow.

"I am sure, Miss Hallam would grace any position she might choose to fill," he said courteously.

"Then you will let me try," she asked, eagerly. She slipped off her glove, and took pencil and paper from the table. "If you will only test my speed, maybe you can make a decision sooner."

He dictated several pages, which she wrote to his entire satisfaction.

"You are not half as rapid as Jack," she said, laughingly; and then she told him of the practice she had had writing nursery rhymes.

He seemed so interested that she went on to tell him more about the child, and his great desire to be in the office with her.

"I told him I would ask you," she said, finally; "but that it was a very unusual thing to do, and that I doubted very much if any business firm would allow it."

He saw how hard it had been for her to prefer such a request, and smiled reassuringly.

"It would be a very small thing for me to do for Richard Hallam's boy," he said. "Tell the little fellow to come, and welcome. He need not be in any one's way. We have three rooms in this suite, and you will occupy the one at the far end."

It was hard for Bethany to keep back the tears.

"I can never thank you enough, Mr. Edmunds," she said. "The legacy papa thought he had secured to us was swept away, but he has left us one thing that more than compensates—the heritage of his friendships. I have been finding out lately what a great thing it is to be rich in friends."

Bethany went home jubilant. "Now if my twin tenants turn out to be half as nice," she thought, "this will be a very satisfactory day."

She tried to picture them, as she walked rapidly on, wondering whether they would be prim and dignified, or nervous and fussy. Mrs. Marion had said they were fine housekeepers. That might mean they were exacting and hard to please.

"What's the use of borrowing trouble?" she concluded, finally. "I'll take Uncle Doctor's advice, and not try to count to-morrow's milestones."

She found them sitting on the side piazza, being abundantly entertained by Jack.

"Sister!" he called, excitedly, as she came up the steps to meet them; "this one is Aunt Harry—that's what she told me to call her—and the other one is Aunt Carrie; and they've both been around the world together, and both ridden on elephants."

There was a general laugh at the unceremonious introduction.

Miss Caroline took Bethany's hands in her own little plump ones, and stood on tiptoe to give her a hearty kiss. Miss Harriet did the same, holding her a moment longer to look at her with fond scrutiny.

"Such a striking resemblance to your dear mother," she said. "Sister and I hoped you would look like her."

"They are homely little bodies, and dreadfully old-fashioned," was Bethany's first impression, as she looked at them in their plain dresses of Quaker gray. "But their voices are so musical, and they have such good, motherly faces, I believe they will prove to be real restful kind of people."

"Sister and I have been such birds of passage, that it will seem good to settle down in a real home-nest for a while," said Miss Harriet, as they were going over the house together.

"When one has lived in a trunk for a decade, one appreciates big, roomy closets and wardrobes like these."

They went all over the place, from garret to cellar, and sat down to rest beside an open window, where a climbing rose shook its fragrance in with every passing breeze.

"Mrs. Marion thought you might not be ready for us before next week," sighed Miss Caroline; "but these cool, airy rooms do tempt me so. I wish we could come this very afternoon." She smiled insinuatingly at Bethany. "We have nothing to move but our trunks."

"Well, why not?" answered Bethany. "I shall be glad to surrender the reins any time you want to assume the responsibility."

"Then it's settled!" cried Miss Caroline, exultingly. "O, I'm so glad!" and, catching Miss Harriet around her capacious waist, she whirled her around the room, regardless of her protestations, until their spectacles slid down their noses, and they were out of breath.

Bethany watched them in speechless amazement. Miss Caroline turned in time to catch her expression of alarm.

"Did you think we had lost our senses, dear?" she asked. "We do not often forget our dignity so; but we have been so long like Noah's dove, with no rest for the sole of our foot, that the thought of having at last found an abiding-place is really overwhelming."

"I wish you wouldn't always say 'we,'" remarked Miss Harriet, with dignity. "I am very sure I have outgrown such ridiculous exhibitions of enthusiasm, and it is fully time that you had too."

"O, come now, Harry," responded Miss Caroline, soothingly. "You're just as glad as I am, and there's no use in trying to hide our real selves from people we are going to live with."

Then she turned to Bethany with an apologetic air.

"Sister thinks because we have arrived at a certain date on our calendar, we must conform to that date. But, try as hard as I can, I fail to feel any older sometimes than I used to at Forest Seminary, when we made midnight raids on the pantry, and had all sorts of larks. I suppose it does look ridiculous, and I'm sorry; but I can't grow old gracefully, so long as I am just as ready to effervesce as I ever was."

Bethany was amused at the half-reproachful, half-indulgent look that Miss Harriet bestowed on her sister.

"They'll be a constant source of entertainment," she thought. "I wonder how we ever happened to drift together."

Something of the last thought she expressed in a remark to the sisters as they went down stairs together.

"Indeed, we did not drift!" exclaimed Miss Caroline, decidedly. "You needed us, and we needed you, and the great Weaver crossed our life-threads for some purpose of his own."

By nightfall the sisters had taken their places in the old house, as quietly and naturally as twin turtle-doves tuck their heads under their wings in the shelter of a nest. Their presence in the house gave Bethany such a care-free, restful feeling, and a sense of security that she had not had since she had been left at the head of affairs.

After Jack had gone to bed, she drew a rocking-chair out into the wide hall, and sat down to enjoy the cool breeze that swept through it.

Miss Caroline was down in the kitchen, interviewing Mena about breakfast. How delightful it was to be freed from all responsibility of the meals and the marketing! After the next week she would not have even the rooms to attend to, for Miss Caroline had engaged a stout maid to do the housework, that Bethany's inexperienced hands had found so irksome.

Up-stairs, Miss Harriet was stepping briskly around, unpacking one of the trunks. Bethany could hear her singing to herself in a thin, sweet voice, full of old-fashioned quavers and turns. Some of the notes were muffled as she disappeared from time to time in the big closet, and some came with jerky force as she tugged at a refractory bureau drawer.