She pictured herself dying of consumption, brought on by sorrow--a beautiful wreck, yet still fascinating, gazed upon adoringly by the editor of the AVALANCHE and Colonel Starbottle.

And where was Colonel Starbottle all this while?
Why didn't he come?
He, at least, understood her.

He--she laughed the reckless, light laugh of a few moments before; and then her face suddenly grew grave, as it had not a few moments before.
What was that little red-haired imp doing all this time?
Why was she so quiet?
She opened the door noiselessly, and listened.

She fancied that she heard, above the multitudinous small noises and creakings and warpings of the vacant house, a smaller voice singing on the floor above.

This, as she remembered, was only an open attic that had been used as a storeroom.