A Romance of the City Room
the sense of companionship and protecting tenderness which had enveloped her so mysteriously and so long.
She was recalling these things one cold night in February when she wearily entered her apartment. On the hearth, in her cosey study, a bright fire burned cheerily. The attentive maid had drawn up to it her favorite easy-chair and had placed her slippers near the warm glow. She sank into the chair with a sigh of satisfaction, brushing the snow from her jacket, and recklessly exposing the soles of her little boots to the heat as she settled her feet on the fender. The sudden blaze that had greeted her had died down, and the room was almost in shadow. As her eyes wandered listlessly over her books and pictures they fell on something oddly familiar. Was that great vase on the table, which had held the Shadow's offering for so long, again full of fresh red roses? Miss Bancroft rubbed her eyes and looked more closely. Had she fallen asleep and was she dreaming of the roses that had filled it so constantly until three months ago? The perfume of the flowers seemed very real. They were there—
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