things, with
what you call the faded look, why, you've learned just about all there
is to know of human nature. Don't expect it, at your age."

Molly Brandeis had never lost her trick of chatting with customers, or
listening to them, whenever she had a moment's time. People used to drop
in, and perch themselves on one of the stools near the big glowing base
burner and talk to Mrs. Brandeis. It was incredible, the secrets they
revealed of business, and love and disgrace; of hopes and aspirations,
and troubles, and happiness. The farmer women used to fascinate Fanny
by their very drabness. Mrs. Brandeis had a long and loyal following
of these women. It was before the day when every farmhouse boasted an
automobile, a telephone, and a phonograph.

A worn and dreary lot, these farmer women, living a skimmed milk
existence, putting their youth, and health, and looks into the soil.
They used often to sit back near the stove in winter, or in a cool
corner near the front of the store in summer, and reveal, bit by bit,
the sordid, tragic details of their starved existence. Fanny was often
shocked when they told their age--twenty-five, twenty-eight, thirty,
but old and withered from drudgery, and child-bearing, and coarse,
unwholesome food. Ignorant women, and terribly lonely, with the dumb,
lack-luster eyes that bespeak monotony. When they smiled they showed
blue-white, glassily perfect false teeth that flashed incongruously in
the ruin of their wrinkled, sallow, weather-beaten faces. Mrs. Brandeis
would question them gently.

Children? Ten. Living? Four. Doctor? Never had one in the house. Why? He
didn't believe in them. No proper kitchen utensils, none of the
devices that lighten the deadeningly monotonous drudgery of housework.
Everything went to make his work easier--new harrows, plows, tractors,
wind mills, reapers, barns, silos. The story would come out, bit by
bit, as the woman sat there, a worn, unlovely figure, her
hands--toil-blackened, seamed, calloused, unlovelier than any woman's
hands were ever meant to be--lying in unaccustomed idleness in her lap.

Fanny learned, too, that the woman with the shawl, and with her money
tied in a corner of her handkerchief, was more likely to buy the
six-dollar doll, with the blue satin dress, and the real hair and
eye-lashes, while the Winnebago East End society woman haggled over the
forty-nine cent kind, which she dressed herself.

I think their loyalty to Mrs. Brandeis migh