etfulness at
dance halls, at the "movies," at Slattery's Riverside Park in summer, in
"joy rides" with the Max Wylies of Hampton. And beside, the Max Wylies
were afraid of her. If at times she wished for wealth, it was because
wealth held the magic of emancipation from surroundings against which
her soul revolted. Vividly idealized but unconfided was the memory of
a seaside village, the scene of one of the brief sojourns of her
childhood, where the air was fragrant with the breath of salt marshes,
where she recalled, through the vines of a porch, a shining glimpse of
the sea at the end of a little street....

Next to Pappas Brothers was the grey wooden building of Mule Spinners'
Hall, that elite organization of skilled labour, and underneath it
the store of Johnny Tiernan, its windows piled up with stoves and
stovepipes, sheet iron and cooking utensils. Mr. Tiernan, like the
Greeks, was happy, too: unlike the Greeks, he never appeared to be busy,
and yet he throve. He was very proud of the business in which he had
invested his savings, but he seemed to have other affairs lying blithely
on his mind, affairs of moment to the community, as the frequent
presence of the huge policemen, aldermen, and other important looking
persons bore witness. He hailed by name Italians, Greeks, Belgians,
Syrians, and "French"; he hailed Janet, too, with respectful
cheerfulness, taking off his hat. He possessed the rare, warm vitality
that is irresistible. A native of Hampton, still in his thirties, his
sharp little nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed the wisdom that is
born and not made; his stiff hair had a twist like the bristles in the
cleaning rod of a gun.

He gave Janet the odd impression that he understood her. And she did not
understand herself!

By the time she reached the Common the winter sun, as though red from
exertion, had begun to dispel the smoke and heavy morning mists. She
disliked winter, the lumpy brown turf mildewed by the frost, but one
day she was moved by a quality, hitherto unsuspected, in the delicate
tracery against the sky made by the slender branches of the great elms
and maples. She halted on the pavement, her eyes raised, heedless of
passers-by, feeling within her a throb of the longing that could be so
oddly and unexpectedly aroused.

Her way lay along Faber Street, the main artery of Hampton, a wide
strip of asphalt threaded with car tracks, lined on both sides with
incongruous edifices indicative