seemed to know when she had left
anything out, and she always ended by telling him. Then he would take
a long breath, eyes closed, and, after fumbling back of the molasses
jug, would soon be seated again beneath the streaming gas-jet spelling
to himself the words of his coverless book.

So vivid was the picture, the personality and routine of Grit, that
Great Taylor felt the awe with which he, at times, had inspired her.
She had been afraid of Grit--afraid to do anything she could not tell
him about; afraid not to tell him about everything she had done. But
now she determined: "I'll do what I please." And the first thing it
pleased Great Taylor to do was to get rid of the odious molasses jug.

She plucked it from the shelf, holding the sticky handle between two
fingers, and dropped it into the peach crate that served as a
waste-basket. The noise when the jug struck the bottom of the crate
startled her. Great Taylor stood there--listening. Someone was slowly
ascending the circular staircase. The woman could hear a footfall on
the iron steps.

"Grit's gone," she reassured herself. "I'll do what I please."

She reached for the grimy book, "Grit's Bible," the most offensive
article in the room, and with sudden determination tore the book in
two, and was about to throw the defaced volume into the basket along
with the earthen jug when fear arrested the motion of her hands. Her
lips parted. She was afraid to turn her head. The door back of her had
opened.

Great Taylor was only ordinarily superstitious. She had buried Grit
that morning. It was still broad daylight--early afternoon. And yet
when she turned, clutching the torn book, she fully expected to see a
pair of baggy breeches preceding a collarless, long-necked man with a
broken nose, and smudges in the hollows of his cheeks.

Instead, she wheeled to see a pair of fastidiously pressed blue serge
trousers, an immaculate white collar, a straight nose and ruddy
complexion. In fact, the man seemed the exact opposite of Grit. Nell
glanced at the open door, back at the man, exhaled tremulously with
relief, and breathed: "Why didn't you knock?"

"Sorry if I startled you," puffed the man, entirely winded by the six
flights. "Must have pushed the wrong button in the vestibule. No great
harm done."

"Who are you? What you want?"

"Junk. That's one of the things I came to see about--the junk in back
of my place. I suppose it's for sale." He thrust his white hands into
t