a dead engine. He carried
something shining and tried to slip it under his coat when he saw her.
She knew he was stealing brass, but she did not care; she called as they
passed through the light from an arc lamp:

"Hello, sweetheart--where you going?"

The man looked up ashamed, and she turned a brazen, painted face at him
and tried to smile without opening her lips.

Their eyes met, and the man caught her by the arm and cried:

"God, Violet--is this you--have you--" She cut him off with:

"Henry Fenn--why--Henry--"

The brass fell at his feet. He did not pick it up. They stood between
the box cars in speechless astonishment. It was the man who found voice.

"Violet--Violet," he cried. "This is hell. I'm a thief and you--"

"Say it--say it--don't spare me," she cried. "That's what I am, Henry.
It's all right about me, but how about you, how about you, Henry? This
is no place for you! Why, you," she exclaimed--"why, you are--"

"I'm a drunken thief stealing brass couplings to get another drink,
Violet."

He picked up the brass and threw it up into the engine, still clutching
her arm so that she could not run away.

"But, girl--" he cried, "you've got to quit this--this is no way for you
to live."

She looked at him to see what was in his mind. She broke away, and
scrambled into the engine cab and put the brass where it could not fall
out.

"You don't want that brass falling out, and them tracing you down here
and jugging you--you fool," she panted as she climbed to the ground.

"Lookee here, Henry Fenn," she cried, "you're too good a man for this.
You've had a dirty deal. I knew it when she married you--the snake; I
know it--I've always known it."

The woman's voice was shrill with emotion. Fenn saw that she was verging
on the hysterical, and took her arm and led her down the dark alley
between the cars. The man's heart was touched--partly by the wreck he
saw, and partly by her words. They brought back the days when he and she
had seen their visions. The liquor had left his head, and he was a
tremble. He felt her cold, hard hand, and took it in his own dirty,
shaken hand to warm it.

"How are you living?" he asked.

"This way," she replied. "I got my children--they've got to live
someway. I can't leave them day times and see 'em run wild on the
streets--the little girls need me."

She looked up into his face as they hurried past an arc lamp, and she
saw tears there.

"Oh, you got a dirty deal, He