all,
insistent as a bugle note, reaching the basement's breadth, from
hardware to candy, from human hair to white goods, the tinny voice
of the piano--gay, rollicking.

At five o'clock the patch of daylight above the red-lighted exit door
turned taupe, as though a gray curtain had been flung across it; and
the girls, with shooting pains in their limbs, braced themselves for
the last hour. Shoppers, their bags bulging and their shawls awry,
fumbled in bins for a last remnant; hatless, sway-backed women, carrying
children, fought for mill ends. Sara Juke stood first on one foot and
then on the other to alternate the strain; her hands were hot and dry as
flannel, but her cheeks were pink--very pink.

At six o'clock Hattie Krakow untied her black alpaca apron, pinned a hat
as nondescript as a bird's nest at an unrakish angle and slid into a
warm gray jacket.

"Ready, Sara?"

"Yes, Hat." But her voice came vaguely, as through fog.

"I'm going to fix us some stew to-night with them onions Lettie brought
up to the room when she moved--mutton stew, with a broth for you, Sara."

"Yes, Hat."

Sara's eyes darted out over the emptying aisles; and, even as she pinned
on her velveteen poke bonnet at a too-swagger angle, and fluffed out a
few carefully provided curls across her brow, she kept watch and, with
obvious subterfuge, slid into her little unlined silk coat with a
deliberation not her own. "Coming, Sara?"

"Wait, can't you? My--my hat ain't on right."

"Come on; you're dolled up enough."

"My--my gloves--I--I forgot 'em. You--you can go on, Hat." And she must
burrow back beneath the counter.

Miss Krakow let out a snort, as fiery with scorn as though flames were
curling on her lips.

"Hanging round to see whether he's coming, ain't you? To think they shot
Lincoln and let him live! Before I'd run after any man living, much less
the excuse of a man like him! A shiny-haired, square-faced little rat
like him!"

"I ain't neither, waiting. I guess I got a right to find my gloves.
I--I guess I gotta right. He's as good as you are, and better. I--I
guess I gotta right." But the raspberry red of confusion dyed her face.

"No, you ain't waiting! No, no; you ain't waiting," mimicked Miss
Krakow, and her voice was like autumn leaves that crackle underfoot.
"Well, then, if you ain't waiting here he comes now. I dare you to come
on home with me now, like you ought to."

"I--you go on! I gotta tell him something. I guess