nxiously out, cupping her eyes in her hand and straining through the
reflecting window-pane at the undistinguishable sky; her little
wren-like movements and eyes were full of nerves.

"It'll be all right with an umbrella," she urged--"eh, Angie?"

"Yes."

Tillie hurried to the little one-window room. There were two carmine
spots high on her cheek-bones; as she dressed herself before a wavy
mirror her lips were open and parted like a child's, and the breath came
warm and fast between them.

"I'll be home early to-night, Angie. You sleep on the davenport. I don't
mind the lumps in the cot."

She frizzed her front hair with a curling-iron she heated in the fan of
the gas-flame, and combed out the little spring-tight curls until they
framed her face like a fuzzy halo. Her pink lawn waist came high up
about her neck in a trig, tight-fitting collar; and when she finally
pressed on her sailor hat, and slid into her warm-looking tan jacket the
small magenta bow on her left coat-lapel heaved up and down with her
bosom.

"Say," she called through the open doorway, "I wish you'd see those
seventy-nine-cent gloves, Angie--already split! How'd yours wear, huh?"

Silence.

"You care if I wear yours to-night, Angie?"

Silence.

"Aw, Angie, if you're sick why don't you say so and not go spoilin' my
evening? Gee! If a girl would listen to you she'd have a swell time of
it--she would! A girl's gotta have life."

She fastened a slender gold chain with a dangling blue-enamel heart
round her neck.

"Aw, I guess I'll stay home. There ain't no fun in anything, with you
poutin' round like this."

Tillie appeared in the doorway, gloves in hand. Angie was still at the
uncleared table; her cheek lay on the red-and-white table-cloth, and her
face was turned away.

"Angie!"

The room was quiet with the ear-pressing silence of vacuum. Tillie
crossed and, with hands that trembled a bit, shook the figure at the
table. The limp arms slumped deeper, and the waist-line collapsed like a
meal-sack tied in the middle.

"Angie, honey!" Tillie's hand touched a cheek that was cold, but not
with the chill of autumn.

Then Tillie cried out--the love-of-life cry of to-day and to-morrow, and
all the echoing and re-echoing yesterdays--and along the dim-lit hall
the rows of doors opened as if she had touched their secret springs.

Hurrying feet--whispers--far-away faces--strange hands--a professional
voice and cold, shining instruments--the