"Not enough to live on."

"Not enough to live on," she echoed. "But I can't go on working. I
can't go on alone. The cart's too heavy to push alone. I'm done." She
drooped there.

"I think we can arrange something." For a moment the man was silent,
his queer eyes moving over her body. "I had something in mind when I
entered--something aside from junk. I could make a place for you. I'll
do better than that. With this rubbish you buy a half share in one of
my places and sit all day with your hands folded. You can make more in
a week than you ever made in a year...." His voice flowed smoothly on
until Great Taylor raised her head.

"I didn't come ten years ago."

The man laughed. "Who cares how you make your money? Do you know what
people say when they hear you calling through the streets? They say,
'It's nothing, it's only Great Taylor.' And do you know what they
think when they look down upon you and your junk-cart? They think of
you just as you used to think of Grit...."

She staggered to her feet. "You leave Grit out of it!" For ten years a
sentence had been pulsing through her mind. "Get out!" she cried,
"_Grit warn't dirty underneath_!" The pain in her breast choked her
and stopped her short as she moved threateningly toward him. The piece
of iron fell heavily to the floor.

"Who sees underneath?" came the voice of the man.

"Grit," she moaned, "Grit sees underneath." And she hurled her
tortured body forward, striking at him with her fists. She fell upon
the pile of scrap iron. Each heave of her breast was a sob. She
struggled to her feet and glared around her. But the man was not
there.

Moaning, she sank into the armchair. "What's the matter with me? There
warn't nobody here! _He_ warn't here. No man could stay the same for
ten years." The piles of junk seemed slowly to revolve around her.
"What's the matter with me?" she asked again. "Ain't I got a
right?..."

"Of course you have a right to the things you want." From the top of
the hill of rags came his voice. It brought Great Taylor to her feet,
sobbing. But the pain in her side, more fearful than ever, held her
motionless.

"Wash away the ugly grime of toil," said the voice. "You're less than
forty. You're a woman. You can have the things that other women have."

"I got more than some women," she cried. "I'm clean--I'm clean
underneath." She stumbled toward him but again sank to the floor. She
tried to spring up. Her will sprang up, for her spiri