n for a haircut. She was one of
these--What do you call 'em now?"

"Manicure artists?" says I.

"That's it," says he. "Asked me if I didn't want my fingers manicured;
and, by jinks! I let her do it, just to see what it was like. Never felt
so blamed foolish in my life! Look at them fingernails, will you? Been
parin' 'em with a jackknife for fifty-seven years; and she soaks 'em out
in a bowl of perfumery, jabs under 'em with a little stick wrapped in
cotton, cuts off all the hang nails, files 'em round at the ends, and
polishes 'em up so they shine as if they were varnished! He, he! Guess
the boys would laugh if they could have seen me."

"It's one experience you've got on me," says I. "And this manicure lady
is a ringer for Mrs. Daggett, eh?"

"Well, now," says he, scratchin' his chin, "maybe I ought to put it that
she looks a good deal as Mrs. Daggett might have looked ten or fifteen
years ago if she'd been got up that way,--same shade of red hair, only
not such a thunderin' lot of it; same kind of blue eyes, only not so wide
open and starry; and a nose and chin that I couldn't help remarking.
Course, now, you understand this young woman was fixed up considerable
smarter than Mrs. Daggett ever was in her life."

"If she's a manicure artist in one of them Broadway hotels," says I, "I
could guess that; specially if Mrs. Daggett's always stuck to Iowa."

"Yes, that's right; she has," says Daggett. "But if she'd had the same
chance to know what to wear and how to wear it----Well, I wish she'd had
it, that's all. And she wanted it. My, my! how she did hanker for such
things, Mr. McCabe!"

"Well, better late than never," says I.

"No, no!" says he, his voice kind of breakin' up. "That's what I want to
forget, how--how late it is!" and hanged if he don't have to fish out a
handkerchief and swab off his eyes. "You see," he goes on, "Marthy's
gone."

"Eh?" says I. "You mean she's----"

He nods. "Four years ago this spring," says he. "Typhoid."

"But," says I, "how about this hat?"

"One of my notions," says he,--"just a foolish idea of mine. I'll tell
you. When she was lying there, all white and thin, and not caring whether
she ever got up again or not, a new spring hat was the only thing I could
get her to take an interest in. She'd never had what you might call a
real, bang-up, stylish hat. Always wanted one, too. And it wasn't because
I was such a mean critter that she couldn't have had the money. But you
know