The truth of her thought was brought home to her with unexpected suddenness, for as she passed a strip of sidewalk made light by the glare from a saloon brilliant with gas, a man just coming out of its door stared boldly, and then joined her.

“Ahem!” he said.

The girl quickened her pace, but the intruder only lengthened his.

“Cold night, isn’t it, darling?” he remarked, and tried to take her arm.

Constance shrank away from the familiarity with a loathing and fear which, as her persecutor followed, drove her to the curb.

“How dare you?” she burst out, finding he was not to be avoided.

“Now don’t be silly, and—­”

There the sentence ended, for the man was jerked backwards by the collar, and then shot forward, with a shove, full length into the gutter.

“I feared you would need assistance, Miss Durant, and so took the liberty of following you at a distance,” explained Dr. Armstrong, as the cur picked himself up and slunk away.

“You are very—­Thank you deeply for your kindness, Dr. Armstrong,” gasped the girl, her voice trembling.  “I ought to have been guided by your advice and taken the car, but the truth is, I suddenly remembered—­that is, I happened to be without any money, and was ashamed to ask you for a loan.  Now, if you’ll lend me five cents, I shall be most grateful.”

“It is said to be a feminine trait never to think of contingencies,” remarked the doctor, “and I think, Miss Durant, that your suggested five cents has a tendency in that direction.  I will walk with you to Lexington Avenue, which is now your nearest line, and if you still persist then in refusing my escort, I shall insist that you become my debtor for at least a dollar.”

“I really need not take you any further than the car, thank you, Dr. Armstrong, for I can get a cab at Twenty-third Street.”

It was a short walk to the car line,—­too short, indeed, for Miss Durant to express her sense of obligation as she wished,—­and she tried, even as she was mounting the steps, to say a last word, but the car swept her away with the sentence half spoken; and with a want of dignity that was not customary in her, she staggered to a seat.  Then as she tendered a dollar bill to the conductor, she remarked to herself,—­

“Now, that’s a man I’d like for a friend, if only he wouldn’t be foolish.”

At eleven on the following morning, Miss Durant’s carriage once more stopped at the hospital door; and, bearing a burden of flowers, and followed by the footman carrying a large basket, Constance entered the ward, and made her way to the waif’s bedside.

“Good-morning,” she said to Dr. Armstrong, who stood beside the next patient.  “How is our invalid doing?”

“Good-morning,” responded the doctor, taking the hand she held out.  “I think—­”

“We’s takin’ life dead easy, dat’s wot wese is,” came the prompt interruption from the pillow, in a voice at once youthful yet worn.  “Say, dis oin’t no lead pipe cinch, oh, no!”