ther look. The girl was young and as trim as
a sunny garden. Her face was packed with laughter and freedom, like a
young morning when tender rosy clouds sail in the sky. She walked with
a light spring of happiness; each step seemed the beginning of a
dance, light and swift and certain. Mary knew her in a pang, and her
bent face grew redder than the tiles she was scrubbing. Like lightning
she knew her. Her brain swung in a clamor of "where, where?" and even
in the question she had the answer, for this was the girl she had seen
going into the Gayety Theater swinging on the arm of her big
policeman. The girl said good morning to her in a kindly voice, and
Mary with a swift, frightened glance, whispered back good morning,
then the girl went upstairs again, and Mary continued to scrub the
floor.

When the kitchen was finished and inspected and approved of, she was
instructed to wash out the front hall, and set about the work at once.

"Get it done as quickly as you can," said the mistress, "I am
expecting my nephew here soon, and he dislikes washing."

So Mary bent quickly to her work. She was not tired now. Her hands
moved swiftly up and down the floor without effort. Indeed, her
actions were almost mechanical. The self that was thinking and probing
seemed somehow apart from the body bending over the bucket, and the
hands that scrubbed and dipped and wrung. She had finished about three
quarters of the hall when a couple of sharp raps came to the door.
Mrs. O'Connor flew noiselessly up from the kitchen.

"I knew," said she, bitterly, "that you would not be finished before
he came. Dry that puddle at once, so that he can walk in, and take the
soap out of the way."

She stood with her hand on the door while Mary followed these
directions, then, when a couple of hasty movements had removed the
surplus water, Mrs. O'Connor drew the bolt and her nephew entered.
Mary knew him on the doorstep, and her blood froze in terror and
boiled again in shame.

Mrs. O'Connor drew the big policeman inside and kissed him.

"I can't get these people to do things in time," said she. "They are
that slow. Hang up your hat and coat and come into the parlor."

The policeman, with his eyes fixed steadily on Mary, began to take off
his coat. His eyes, his moustache, all his face and figure seemed to
be looking at her. He was an enormous and terrifying interrogation. He
tapped his tough moustache and stepped over the bucket; at the entrance
to