such a place!"

"Do you wish to know just what I thought?" Frank asked her, reddening.

"Yes." Her eyes, a little shamed, but brave, met his.

"Well," he said, "you stood there with your hair all streaming and
your--and that splendid fire in your eyes. The beauty of you struck me
like a whip. You seemed an angel--after all the sordid sights I'd
seen. And--"

"Go on--please;" her eyes were shining.

"Then--it's sort of odd--but I wanted to fight for you!"

She came a little closer.

"Some day, perhaps," she spoke with sudden gravity, "I may ask you to do
that."

"What? Fight for you?"

Bertha nodded.

* * * * *

It was after the Olympia had been made over into a larger Tivoli Opera
House that Frank met Aleta Boice. She was a member of the chorus. Their
acquaintance blossomed from propinquity, for both had a fashion of
supping on the edge of midnight at a little restaurant, better known by
its sobriquet of "Dusty Doughnut," than by its real name, which long ago
had been forgotten.

Frank had formed the habit of sitting at a small table somewhat isolated
from the others where now and then he wrote an article or editorial.
Hitherto it had unvaryingly been at his disposal, for the hour of
Frank's reflection was not a busy one. Therefore he was just a mite
annoyed to find his table tenanted by a woman. Perhaps his irritation
was apparent; or, perchance, Aleta had a knack for reading faces, for
she colored.

"I--I beg your pardon. Have I got your place?"

"N-no," protested Frank. "I sit here often ... that's no matter."

"Well," she said; "don't let me drive you off. I'll not be
comfortable.... Let's share it, then," she smiled; "tonight, at least."

They did. Frank found her very like her mother--the smiling one of
Darlton and Boice, Olympia entertainers of past years. One couldn't call
her pretty, when her face was in repose. But that was seldom, so it
didn't matter. Her smile was like a spring, a fountain of perennial good
nature. And her eyes were trusting, like a child's. Frank often wondered
how she had maintained that look of eager innocence amid the life
she lived.

Frank learned much of her past. She could barely remember the father,
who was a circus acrobat and had been killed by a fall from a trapeze.
Her mother had retired from the stage; she was doing needlework for the
department stores and the Woman's Exchange.

"Every morning she teaches me grammar," said A