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.

Janet laughed.  His tone, though bantering, was respectful.  One of the secrets of Mr. Tiernan’s very human success was due to his ability to estimate his fellow creatures.  His manner of treating Janet, for instance, was quite different from that he employed in dealing with Lise.  In the course of one interview he had conveyed to Lise, without arousing her antagonism, the conviction that it was wiser to trust him than to attempt to pull wool over his eyes.  Janet had the intelligence to trust him; and to-night, as she faced him, the fact was brought home to her with peculiar force that this wiry-haired little man was the person above all others of her immediate acquaintance to seek in time of trouble.  It was his great quality.  Moreover, Mr. Tiernan, even in his morning greetings as she passed, always contrived to convey to her, in some unaccountable fashion, the admiration and regard in which he held her, and the effect of her contact with him was invariably to give her a certain objective image of herself, an increased self-confidence and self-respect.  For instance, by the light dancing in Mr. Tiernan’s eyes as he regarded her, she saw herself now as the mainstay of the helpless family in the clay-yellow flat across the street.  And there was nothing, she was convinced, Mr. Tiernan did not know about that family.  So she said:—­“I’ve come to see about the stove.”