life so precarious and sordid as to be threatened in its continuity by the absurd failure of a stove, when, glancing at her sister, she felt a sharp pang of self-conviction, of self-disgust.  Was she, also, like that, indifferent and self-absorbed?  Lise, in her evening finery, looking occasionally at the clock, was awaiting the hour set for a rendezvous, whiling away the time with the Boston evening sheet whose glaring red headlines stretched across the page.  When the newspaper fell to her lap a dreamy expression clouded Lise’s eyes.  She was thinking of some man!  Quickly Janet looked away, at her father, only to be repelled anew by the expression, almost of fatuity, she discovered on his face as he bent over the letter once more.  Suddenly she experienced an overwhelming realization of the desperation of Hannah’s plight,—­the destiny of spending one’s days, without sympathy, toiling in the confinement of these rooms to supply their bodily needs.  Never had a destiny seemed so appalling.  And yet Janet resented that pity.  The effect of it was to fetter and inhibit; from the moment of its intrusion she was no longer a free agent, to leave Hampton and Ditmar when she chose.  Without her, this family was helpless.  She rose, and picked up some of the dishes.  Hannah snatched them from her hands.

“Leave ’em alone, Janet!” she said with unaccustomed sharpness.  “I guess I ain’t too feeble to handle ’em yet.”

And a flash of new understanding came to Janet.  The dishes were vicarious, a substitute for that greater destiny out of which Hannah had been cheated by fate.  A substitute, yes, and perhaps become something of a mania, like her father’s Bumpus papers....  Janet left the room swiftly, entered the bedroom, put on her coat and hat, and went out.  Across the street the light in Mr. Tiernan’s shop was still burning, and through the window she perceived Mr. Tiernan himself tilted back in his chair, his feet on the table, the tip of his nose pointed straight at the ceiling.  When the bell betrayed the opening of the door he let down his chair on the floor with a bang.

“Why, it’s Miss Janet!” he exclaimed.  “How are you this evening, now?  I was just hoping some one would pay me a call.”

Twinkling at her, he managed, somewhat magically, to dispel her temper of pessimism, and she was moved to reply:—­“You know you were having a beautiful time, all by yourself.”

“A beautiful time, is it?  Maybe it’s because I was dreaming of some young lady a-coming to pay me a visit.”

“Well, dreams never come up to expectations, do they?”

“Then it’s dreaming I am, still,” retorted Mr. Tiernan, quickly.