Norah did not mind in the least.

“All right, little human creature,” said Brown, placing her upon the hearth-rug to play with Bim’s silky brown ears, “you’ve given me as much comfort as one of us is likely to give another, in a world where everybody starves for something he can’t have, and only God knows what the fight for self-denial costs.  Shall we have supper now, Norah and Bim?  Milk for Norah, bones for Bim, meat for Donald Brown—­and a prayer for pluck and patience for us all!”

IV

BROWN’S SISTER SUE

It was a rainy, windy, November night.  Brown and Bim were alone together—­temporarily.  Suddenly, above the howling of the wind sounded sharply the clap of the old knocker on the door.  Brown laid down his book—­reluctantly, for he was human.  A woman’s figure, clad from head to foot in furs, sprang from the car at the curb, ran across the sidewalk, and in at the open door.

“Go back to the hotel and come for me at twelve, Simpson,” she said to her chauffeur as she passed him, and the next moment she was inside the house and had flung the door heavily shut behind her.

“O Don!” she cried, and assailed the tall figure before her with a furry embrace, which was returned with a right good will.

“Well, well, Sue girl!  Have you driven seventy miles to see me?” was Brown’s response.  Bim, circling madly around the pair, barked his emotion.

“Is this—­” began Brown’s visitor, glancing rapidly about her as she released herself.  “Is this—­” she began again, and stopped helplessly.  Then, “O Don!” she said once more, and again, “O Don!”—­and laughed.

“Yes, I know,” said Brown, smiling.  “Here, let me take off your furs.  It’s pretty warm here, I imagine.  Bim and I are apt to keep a lot of wood on the fire.”

“Bim?”

“At your feet—­and your service.”

The lady looked at the dog, who stood watching her.

“Your only companion, Don?” she asked.

“My best chum.  He’s so nearly human he understands at this moment that you don’t think him handsome.  Never mind!  We’re used to it, aren’t we, Bim?  Come over and take this chair, Sue.  Are you cold?  Would you like something hot?  Tea—­or coffee?”

She sat in the chair he drew to the fire for her.  As he looked at his sister’s charming, youthful face, and saw her sitting there in her handsome street dress with its various little indications of wealth and fashion—­the gold-meshed purse on its slender chain, the rare jewel in the brooch at the throat, the flashing rings on the white hands—­he drew in his breath in an incredulous little whistle.

“Is it really you, Sis?” he said.  “You look pretty good to me, do you know, sitting there in my old chair!”

She glanced at the arm of the old rocker, worn smooth by the rubbing of many hands.

“Why do you have such a chair?” she answered impatiently—­or so it sounded.  “Why in the world, if you must live in a hovel like this, don’t you make yourself comfortable?  Send home for some easy chairs, and rugs and pictures.”  Her eye wandered about the room.  “And a decent desk—­and—­and—­a well-bred dog!”