nice
little silent ways and her little uniform!"

"I'll see that she's treated fairly," Miss Toland promised.

"Well, do! Don't lose her, whatever you do! I suppose she has beaus?"

"Not Julia! She's entirely above the other sex. No; there's a young Jew
in Sacramento who writes her now and then, but that's a mere
boy-and-girl memory."

"Well, let's hope it remains one!" And the great lady, sailing out to
her waiting coupe, stopped on the outer steps to speak to Miss Page, who
was tying up some rain-beaten chrysanthemums in the little front garden.

"How crushed they are! Do you like flowers, Miss Page?"

"Oh, yes," smiled Julia, looking like a flower herself in the clear
twilight.

"You must come and see Mr. von Hoffmann's orchids some day," Mrs. von
Hoffmann volunteered. Julia smiled again, but did not speak. The older
woman glanced up and down the desolate street, and shuddered. "Dreadful
neighbourhood!" she said with a rueful smile and a shake of the head,
and climbing into her carriage, she was gone. Julia looked about her,
but found the neighbourhood only interesting and friendly, as usual, and
so returned to her flowers.

When her chrysanthemums were trim and secure once more, perhaps--if
this were one of the club evenings--she put on her long coat, and the
hat with the velvet rose, and went upon a little shopping expedition, a
brown twine bag dangling from one of her ungloved arms. The bakery was
always bright and odorous, and at this hour filled with customers. The
perspiring Swedish proprietress and a blond-haired daughter or two would
be handling the warm loaves, the flat, floury pies, and the brown
cookies as fast as hands could move; the cash register behind the
counter rang and rang, the air was hot, the windows obscured with steam.
Men were among the customers, but the Weber girls had no time to flirt
now. They rustled the thin large sheets of paper, snapped the flimsy
pink string, lifted a designated pie out of the window, or weighed pound
cake with serious swiftness.

From the bakery Julia crossed an indeterminate street upon which shabby
scattered houses backed or faced with utter disregard of harmony, and
entered a dark and disorderly grocery, which smelled of beer and brooms
and soap and stale cakes. Tired women, wrapped in shawls, their money
held tight in bony, bare hands, sat about on cracker boxes and cheese
crates, awaiting their turn to be served. A lamp, with a reflector, gave
the o