FANNY HERSELF

By Edna Ferber

TO WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE

PREFACE

It has become the fashion among novelists to introduce their hero inknee pants, their heroine in pinafore and pigtails. Time was when wewere rushed up to a stalwart young man of twenty-four, who was presentedas the pivot about whom the plot would revolve. Now we are led, protesting, up to a grubby urchin of five and are invited to watch himthrough twenty years of intimate minutiae. In extreme cases we have beenobliged to witness his evolution from swaddling clothes to dresses, fromdresses to shorts (he is so often English), from shorts to Etons. 

The thrill we get for our pains is when, at twenty-five, he jumps overthe traces and marries the young lady we met in her cradle on page two. The process is known as a psychological study. A publisher's note onpage five hundred and seventy-three assures us that the author is now atwork on Volume Two, dealing with the hero's adult life. A third volumewill present his pleasing senility. The whole is known as a trilogy. If the chief character is of the other sex we are dragged through herdreamy girlhood, or hoydenish. We see her in her graduation white, inher bridal finery. By the time she is twenty we know her better than hermother ever will, and are infinitely more bored by her. 

Yet who would exchange one page in the life of the boy, DavidCopperfield, for whole chapters dealing with Trotwood Copperfield, theman? Who would relinquish the button-bursting Peggotty for the saintlyAgnes? And that other David--he of the slingshot; one could not lovehim so well in his psalm-singing days had one not known him first as thegallant, dauntless vanquisher of giants. As for Becky Sharp, with hertreachery, her cruelty, her vindicativeness, perhaps we could betterhave understood and forgiven her had we known her lonely and neglectedchildhood, with the drunken artist father and her mother, the Frenchopera girl. 

With which modest preamble you are asked to be patient with Miss FannyBrandeis, aged thirteen. Not only must you suffer Fanny, but Fanny'smother as well, without whom there could be no understanding Fanny. Forthat matter, we shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Brandeis were to turn out theheroine in the end. She is that kind of person. 

FANNY HERSELF

CHAPTER ONE

You could not have lived a week in Winnebago without being aware of Mrs. Brandeis. In a town of ten thousand, where every one was a personality, from Hen Cody, the drayman, in blue overalls (magically transformedon Sunday mornings into a suave black-broadcloth usher at theCongregational Church), to A. J. Dawes, who owned the waterworks beforethe city bought it. Mrs. Brandeis was a super-personality. Winnebagodid not know it. Winnebago, buying its dolls, and china, and Battenbergbraid and tinware and toys of Mrs. Brandeis, of Brandeis' Bazaar, realized vaguely that here was some one different. 

When you entered the long, cool, narrow store on Elm Street, Mrs. Brandeis herself came forward to serve you, unless she already was busywith two customers. There were two clerks--three, if you count Aloysius, the boy--but to Mrs. Brandeis belonged the privilege of docketing youfirst. If you happened in during a moment of business lull, you werelikely to find her reading in the left-hand corner at the front of thestore, near the shelf where were ranged the dolls' heads, the pens, thepencils, and school supplies. 

You saw a sturdy, well-set-up, alert woman, of the kind that lookstaller than she really is; a woman with a long, straight, clever nosethat indexed her character, as did everything about her, from her crisp, vigorous, abundant hair to the way she came down hard on her heels inwalking. She was what might be called a very definite person. But firstyou remarked her eyes. Will you concede that eyes can be piercing, yetvelvety? Their piercingness was a mental quality, I suppose, and thevelvety softness a physical one. One could only think, somehow, of wildpansies--the brown kind. If Winnebago had taken the trouble to glanceat the title of the book she laid face down on the pencil boxes as youentered, it would have learned that the book was one of Balzac's, or, perhaps, Zangwill's, or Zola's. She never could overcome that habitof snatching a chapter here and there during dull moments. She was tootired to read when night came. 

There were many times when the little Wisconsin town lay broiling inthe August sun, or locked in the January drifts, and the main businessstreet was as silent as that of a deserted village. But more often shecame forward to you from the rear of the store, with bits of excelsiorclinging to her black sateen apron. You knew that she had been helpingAloysius as he unpacked a consignment of chamber sets or a hogshead ofchina or glassware, chalking each piece with the price mark as it wasdug from its nest of straw and paper. 

"How do you do!" she would say. "What can I do for you?" And in thatmoment she had you listed, indexed, and filed, were you a farmer womanin a black shawl and rusty bonnet with a faded rose bobbing grotesquelyatop it, or one of the patronizing East End set who came to Brandeis'Bazaar because Mrs. Brandeis' party favors, for one thing, were of avariety that could be got nowhere else this side of Chicago. If, aftergreeting you, Mrs. Brandeis called, "Sadie! Stockings!" (supposingstockings were your quest), you might know that Mrs. Brandeis hadweighed you and found you wanting. 

There had always been a store--at least, ever since Fanny couldremember. She often thought how queer it would seem to have to buy pins, or needles, or dishes, or soap, or thread. The store held all thesethings, and many more. Just to glance at the bewildering display outsidegave you promise of the variety within. Winnebago was rather ashamed ofthat display. It was before the day of repression in decoration, andthe two benches in front of the windows overflowed with lamps, andwater sets, and brooms, and boilers and tinware and hampers. Once theWinnebago Courier had had a sarcastic editorial about what they calledthe Oriental bazaar (that was after the editor, Lem Davis, had bumpedhis shin against a toy cart that protruded unduly), but Mrs. Brandeischanged nothing. She knew that the farmer women who stood outside withtheir husbands on busy Saturdays would not have understood repressionin display, but they did understand the tickets that marked the wares inplain figures--this berry set, $1. 59; that lamp, $1. 23. They talked itover, outside, and drifted away, and came back, and entered, and bought. 

She knew when to be old-fashioned, did Mrs. Brandeis, and when to bemodern. She had worn the first short walking skirt in Winnebago. Itcleared the ground in a day before germs were discovered, when women'sskirts trailed and flounced behind them in a cloud of dust. One of herscandalized neighbors (Mrs. Nathan Pereles, it was) had taken her asideto tell her that no decent woman would dress that way. 

"Next year, " said Mrs. Brandeis, "when you are wearing one, I'll remindyou of that. " And she did, too. She had worn shirtwaists with a broad"Gibson" shoulder tuck, when other Winnebago women were still encasedin linings and bodices. Do not get the impression that she stood foremancipation, or feminism, or any of those advanced things. They hadscarcely been touched on in those days. She was just an extraordinarilyalert woman, mentally and physically, with a shrewd sense of values. Molly Brandeis never could set a table without forgetting the spoons, orthe salt, or something, but she could add a double column of figures inher head as fast as her eye could travel. 

There she goes, running off with the story, as we were afraid she would. Not only that, she is using up whole pages of description when sheshould be giving us dialogue. Prospective readers, running theireyes over a printed page, object to the solid block formation of thedescriptive passage. And yet it is fascinating to weave words about her, as it is fascinating to turn a fine diamond this way and that in thesunlight, to catch its prismatic hues. Besides, you want to know--do younot?--how this woman who reads Balzac should be waiting upon you in alittle general store in Winnebago, Wisconsin?

In the first place, Ferdinand Brandeis had been a dreamer, and apotential poet, which is bad equipment for success in the business ofgeneral merchandise. Four times, since her marriage, Molly Brandeis hadpacked her household goods, bade her friends good-by, and with her twochildren, Fanny and Theodore, had followed her husband to pastures new. A heart-breaking business, that, but broadening. She knew nothing of theart of buying and selling at the time of her marriage, but as theyears went by she learned unconsciously the things one should not doin business, from watching Ferdinand Brandeis do them all. She evensuggested this change and that, but to no avail. Ferdinand Brandeiswas a gentle and lovable man at home; a testy, quick-tempered one inbusiness. 

That was because he had been miscast from the first, and yet had playedone part too long, even though unsuccessfully, ever to learn another. Hedid not make friends with the genial traveling salesmen who breezed in, slapped him on the back, offered him a cigar, inquired after his health, opened their sample cases and flirted with the girl clerks, all in abreath. He was a man who talked little, listened little, learned little. He had never got the trick of turning his money over quickly--that trickso necessary to the success of the small-town business. 

So it was that, in the year preceding Ferdinand Brandeis' death, therecame often to the store a certain grim visitor. Herman Walthers, cashierof the First National Bank of Winnebago, was a kindly-enough, shrewd, small-town banker, but to Ferdinand Brandeis and his wife his visits, growing more and more frequent, typified all that was frightful, presaged misery and despair. He would drop in on a bright summermorning, perhaps, with a cheerful greeting. He would stand for a momentat the front of the store, balancing airily from toe to heel, andglancing about from shelf to bin and back again in a large, speculativeway. Then he would begin to walk slowly and ruminatively about, hisshrewd little German eyes appraising the stock. He would hum a littleabsent-minded tune as he walked, up one aisle and down the next (therewere only two), picking up a piece of china there, turning it over tolook at its stamp, holding it up to the light, tapping it a bit with hisknuckles, and putting it down carefully before going musically on downthe aisle to the water sets, the lamps, the stockings, the hardware, thetoys. And so, his hands behind his back, still humming, out the swingingscreen door and into the sunshine of Elm Street, leaving gloom and fearbehind him. 

One year after Molly Brandeis took hold, Herman Walthers' visits ceased, and in two years he used to rise to greet her from his little cubbyholewhen she came into the bank. 

Which brings us to the plush photograph album. The plush photographalbum is a concrete example of what makes business failure and success. More than that, its brief history presents a complete characterizationof Ferdinand and Molly Brandeis. 

Ten years before, Ferdinand Brandeis had bought a large bill ofChristmas fancy-goods--celluloid toilette sets, leather collar boxes, velvet glove cases. Among the lot was a photograph album in the shape ofa huge acorn done in lightning-struck plush. It was a hideous thing, andexpensive. It stood on a brass stand, and its leaves were edged in gilt, and its color was a nauseous green and blue, and it was altogether thesort of thing to grace the chill and funereal best room in a Wisconsinfarmhouse. Ferdinand Brandeis marked it at six dollars and stood itup for the Christmas trade. That had been ten years before. It was tooexpensive; or too pretentious, or perhaps even too horrible for thebucolic purse. At any rate, it had been taken out, brushed, dusted, andplaced on its stand every holiday season for ten years. On the day afterChristmas it was always there, its lightning-struck plush face staringwildly out upon the ravaged fancy-goods counter. It would be packedin its box again and consigned to its long summer's sleep. It had seenthree towns, and many changes. The four dollars that Ferdinand Brandeishad invested in it still remained unturned. 

One snowy day in November (Ferdinand Brandeis died a fortnight later)Mrs. Brandeis, entering the store, saw two women standing at thefancy-goods counter, laughing in a stifled sort of way. One of them wasbowing elaborately to a person unseen. Mrs. Brandeis was puzzled. Shewatched them for a moment, interested. One of the women was known toher. She came up to them and put her question, bluntly, though her quickwits had already given her a suspicion of the truth. 

"What are you bowing to?"

The one who had done the bowing blushed a little, but giggled too, asshe said, "I'm greeting my old friend, the plush album. I've seen ithere every Christmas for five years. "

Ferdinand Brandeis died suddenly a little more than a week later. It wasa terrible period, and one that might have prostrated a less resoluteand balanced woman. There were long-standing debts, not to speak of theentire stock of holiday goods to be paid for. The day after the funeralWinnebago got a shock. The Brandeis house was besieged by condolingcallers. Every member of the little Jewish congregation of Winnebagocame, of course, as they had come before the funeral. Those who had notbrought cakes, and salads, and meats, and pies, brought them now, as wasthe invariable custom in time of mourning. 

Others of the townspeople called, too; men and women who had known andrespected Ferdinand Brandeis. And the shock they got was this: Mrs. Brandeis was out. Any one could have told you that she should have beensitting at home in a darkened room, wearing a black gown, claspingFanny and Theodore to her, and holding a black-bordered handkerchief atintervals to her reddened eyes. And that is what she really wanted todo, for she had loved her husband, and she respected the conventions. What she did was to put on a white shirtwaist and a black skirt at seveno'clock the morning after the funeral. 

The store had been closed the day before. She entered it at sevenforty-five, as Aloysius was sweeping out with wet sawdust and a languidbroom. The extra force of holiday clerks straggled in, uncertainly, ateight or after, expecting an hour or two of undisciplined gossip. Ateight-ten Molly Brandeis walked briskly up to the plush photographalbum, whisked off its six-dollar price mark, and stuck in its placea neatly printed card bearing these figures: "To-day--79@!" The plushalbum went home in a farmer's wagon that afternoon. 

CHAPTER TWO

Right here there should be something said about Fanny Brandeis. And yet, each time I turn to her I find her mother plucking at my sleeve. Therecomes to my mind the picture of Mrs. Brandeis turning down Norris Streetat quarter to eight every morning, her walk almost a march, so firm andmeasured it was, her head high, her chin thrust forward a little, as afighter walks, but not pugnaciously; her short gray skirt clearing theground, her shoulders almost consciously squared. Other Winnebago womenwere just tying up their daughters' pigtails for school, or sweeping thefront porch, or watering the hanging baskets. Norris Street residentsgot into the habit of timing themselves by Mrs. Brandeis. When shemarched by at seven forty-five they hurried a little with the tying ofthe hair bow, as they glanced out of the window. When she came by again, a little before twelve, for her hasty dinner, they turned up the fireunder the potatoes and stirred the flour thickening for the gravy. 

Mrs. Brandeis had soon learned that Fanny and Theodore could managetheir own school toilettes, with, perhaps, some speeding up on the partof Mattie, the servant girl. But it needed her keen brown eye to detectcorners that Aloysius had neglected to sweep out with wet sawdust, andher presence to make sure that the counter covers were taken off andfolded, the outside show dusted and arranged, the windows washed, thewhole store shining and ready for business by eight o'clock. So Fannyhad even learned to do her own tight, shiny, black, shoulder-lengthcurls, which she tied back with a black bow. They were wet, meek, andtractable curls at eight in the morning. By the time school was outat four they were as wildly unruly as if charged with electriccurrents--which they really were, when you consider the little dynamothat wore them. 

Mrs. Brandeis took a scant half hour to walk the six blocks betweenthe store and the house, to snatch a hurried dinner, and traverse thedistance to the store again. It was a program that would have killed awoman less magnificently healthy and determined. She seemed to thrive onit, and she kept her figure and her wit when other women of her age grewdull, and heavy, and ineffectual. On summer days the little town oftenlay shimmering in the heat, the yellow road glaring in it, the redbricks of the high school reflecting it in waves, the very pine knotsin the sidewalks gummy and resinous with heat, and sending up a pungentsmell that was of the woods, and yet stifling. She must have felt analmost irresistible temptation to sit for a moment on the cool, shadyfront porch, with its green-painted flower boxes, its hanging fernbaskets and the catalpa tree looking boskily down upon it. 

But she never did. She had an almost savage energy and determination. The unpaid debts were ever ahead of her; there were the children to bedressed and sent to school; there was the household to be kept up; therewere Theodore's violin lessons that must not be neglected--not afterwhat Professor Bauer had said about him. 

You may think that undue stress is being laid upon this driving forcein her, upon this business ability. But remember that this was fifteenyears or more ago, before women had invaded the world of business by thethousands, to take their place, side by side, salary for salary, withmen. Oh, there were plenty of women wage earners in Winnebago, aselsewhere; clerks, stenographers, school teachers, bookkeepers. Thepaper mills were full of girls, and the canning factory too. But herewas a woman gently bred, untrained in business, left widowed with twochildren at thirty-eight, and worse than penniless--in debt. 

And that was not all. As Ferdinand Brandeis' wife she had occupied acertain social position in the little Jewish community of Winnebago. True, they had never been moneyed, while the others of her own faithin the little town were wealthy, and somewhat purse-proud. They hadcarriages, most of them, with two handsome horses, and their houseswere spacious and veranda-encircled, and set in shady lawns. When theBrandeis family came to Winnebago five years before, these people hadwaited, cautiously, and investigated, and then had called. They wereof a type to be found in every small town; prosperous, conservative, constructive citizens, clannish, but not so much so as their citycousins, mingling socially with their Gentile neighbors, living well, spending their money freely, taking a vast pride in the education oftheir children. But here was Molly Brandeis, a Jewess, setting outto earn her living in business, like a man. It was a thing to stirCongregation Emanu-el to its depths. Jewish women, they would tell you, did not work thus. Their husbands worked for them, or their sons, ortheir brothers. 

"Oh, I don't know, " said Mrs. Brandeis, when she heard of it. "I seemto remember a Jewess named Ruth who was left widowed, and who gleaned inthe fields for her living, and yet the neighbors didn't talk. For thatmatter, she seems to be pretty well thought of, to this day. "

But there is no denying that she lost caste among her own people. Customand training are difficult to overcome. But Molly Brandeis was toodeep in her own affairs to care. That Christmas season following herhusband's death was a ghastly time, and yet a grimly wonderful one, forit applied the acid test to Molly Brandeis and showed her up pure gold. 

The first week in January she, with Sadie and Pearl, the two clerks, and Aloysius, the boy, took inventory. It was a terrifying thing, that process of casting up accounts. It showed with such starkness howhideously the Brandeis ledger sagged on the wrong side. The three womenand the boy worked with a sort of dogged cheerfulness at it, counting, marking, dusting, washing. They found shelves full of forgotten stock, dust-covered and profitless. They found many articles of what is knownas hard stock, akin to the plush album; glass and plated condimentcasters for the dining table, in a day when individual salts andseparate vinegar cruets were already the thing; lamps with straightwicks when round wicks were in demand. 

They scoured shelves, removed the grime of years from boxes, washedwhole battalions of chamber sets, bathed piles of plates, and bins ofcups and saucers. It was a dirty, back-breaking job, that ruined thefinger nails, tried the disposition, and caked the throat withdust. Besides, the store was stove-heated and, near the front door, uncomfortably cold. The women wore little shoulder shawls pinned overtheir waists, for warmth, and all four, including Aloysius, sniffled forweeks afterward. That inventory developed a new, grim line around Mrs. Brandeis' mouth, and carved another at the corner of each eye. After itwas over she washed her hair, steamed her face over a bowl of hot water, packed two valises, left minute and masterful instructions with Mattieas to the household, and with Sadie and Pearl as to the store, and wasoff to Chicago on her first buying trip. She took Fanny with her, asballast. It was a trial at which many men would have quailed. On theshrewdness and judgment of that buying trip depended the future ofBrandeis' Bazaar, and Mrs. Brandeis, and Fanny, and Theodore. 

Mrs. Brandeis had accompanied her husband on many of his trips toChicago. She had even gone with him occasionally to the wholesale housesaround La Salle Street, and Madison, and Fifth Avenue, but she hadnever bought a dollar's worth herself. She saw that he bought slowly, cautiously, and without imagination. She made up her mind that she wouldbuy quickly, intuitively. She knew slightly some of the salesmen inthe wholesale houses. They had often made presents to her of a vase, a pocketbook, a handkerchief, or some such trifle, which she acceptedreluctantly, when at all. She was thankful now for these visits. Shefound herself remembering many details of them. She made up her mind, with a canny knowingness, that there should be no presents this time, notheater invitations, no lunches or dinners. This was business, she toldherself; more than business--it was grim war. 

They still tell of that trip, sometimes, when buyers and jobbers andwholesale men get together. Don't imagine that she came to be a womancaptain of finance. Don't think that we are to see her at the head ofa magnificent business establishment, with buyers and department headsbelow her, and a private office done up in mahogany, and stenographersand secretaries. No, she was Mrs. Brandeis, of Brandeis' Bazaar, to theend. The bills she bought were ridiculously small, I suppose, and thetricks she turned on that first trip were pitiful, perhaps. But theywere magnificent too, in their way. I am even bold enough to think thatshe might have made business history, that plucky woman, if she had hadan earlier start, and if she had not, to the very end, had a pack ofunmanageable handicaps yelping at her heels, pulling at her skirts. 

It was only a six-hour trip to Chicago. Fanny Brandeis' eyes, big enoughat any time, were surely twice their size during the entire journey oftwo hundred miles or more. They were to have lunch on the train! Theywere to stop at an hotel! They were to go to the theater! She would havelain back against the red plush seat of the car, in a swoon of joy, ifthere had not been so much to see in the car itself, and through the carwindow. 

"We'll have something for lunch, " said Mrs. Brandeis when they wereseated in the dining car, "that we never have at home, shall we?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Fanny in a whisper of excitement. "Something--something queer, and different, and not so very healthy!"

They had oysters (a New Yorker would have sniffed at them), and chickenpotpie, and asparagus, and ice cream. If that doesn't prove Mrs. Brandeis was game, I should like to know what could! They stopped atthe Windsor-Clifton, because it was quieter and less expensive than thePalmer House, though quite as full of red plush and walnut. Besides, she had stopped at the Palmer House with her husband, and she knew howbuyers were likely to be besieged by eager salesmen with cards, and withtempting lines of goods spread knowingly in the various sample-rooms. 

Fanny Brandeis was thirteen, and emotional, and incredibly receptiveand alive. It is impossible to tell what she learned during that Chicagotrip, it was so crowded, so wonderful. She went with her mother to thewholesale houses and heard and saw and, unconsciously, remembered. Whenshe became fatigued with the close air of the dim showrooms, with theirendless aisles piled with every sort of ware, she would sit on achair in some obscure corner, watching those sleek, over-lunched, genial-looking salesmen who were chewing their cigars somewhat wildlywhen Mrs. Brandeis finished with them. Sometimes she did not accompanyher mother, but lay in bed, deliciously, until the middle of themorning, then dressed, and chatted with the obliging Irish chamber maid, and read until her mother came for her at noon. 

Everything she did was a delightful adventure; everything she saw hadthe tang of novelty. Fanny Brandeis was to see much that was beautifuland rare in her full lifetime, but she never again, perhaps, gotquite the thrill that those ugly, dim, red-carpeted, gas-lighted hotelcorridors gave her, or the grim bedroom, with its walnut furniture andits Nottingham curtains. As for the Chicago streets themselves, withtheir perilous corners (there were no czars in blue to regulate trafficin those days), older and more sophisticated pedestrians experiencedvarious emotions while negotiating the corner of State and Madison. 

That buying trip lasted ten days. It was a racking business, physicallyand mentally. There were the hours of tramping up one aisle and down theother in the big wholesale lofts. But that brought bodily fatigue only. It was the mental strain that left Mrs. Brandeis spent and limp at theend of the day. Was she buying wisely? Was she over-buying? What didshe know about buying, anyway? She would come back to her hotel at six, sometimes so exhausted that the dining-room and dinner were unthinkable. At such times they would have dinner in their room another deliciousadventure for Fanny. She would try to tempt the fagged woman on the bedwith bits of this or that from one of the many dishes that dotted thedinner tray. But Molly Brandeis, harrowed in spirit and numbed in body, was too spent to eat. 

But that was not always the case. There was that unforgettable nightwhen they went to see Bernhardt the divine. Fanny spent the entiremorning following standing before the bedroom mirror, with her hairpulled out in a wild fluff in front, her mother's old marten-furscarf high and choky around her neck, trying to smile that slow, sad, poignant, tear-compelling smile; but she had to give it up, clevermimic though she was. She only succeeded in looking as though a pin weresticking her somewhere. Besides, Fanny's own smile was a quick, broad, flashing grin, with a generous glint of white teeth in it, and shealways forgot about being exquisitely wistful over it until it was toolate. 

I wonder if the story of the china religious figures will give a wrongimpression of Mrs. Brandeis. Perhaps not, if you will only remember thiswoman's white-lipped determination to wrest a livelihood from the world, for her children and herself. They had been in Chicago a week, and shewas buying at Bauder & Peck's. Now, Bauder & Peck, importers, are knownthe world over. It is doubtful if there is one of you who has not beensupplied, indirectly, with some imported bit of china or glassware, withFrench opera glasses or cunning toys and dolls, from the great New Yorkand Chicago showrooms of that company. 

Young Bauder himself was waiting on Mrs. Brandeis, and he was frowningbecause he hated to sell women. Young Bauder was being broken into theChicago end of the business, and he was not taking gracefully to theprocess. 

At the end of a long aisle, on an obscure shelf in a dim corner, MollyBrandeis' sharp eyes espied a motley collection of dusty, grimychina figures of the kind one sees on the mantel in the parlor ofthe small-town Catholic home. Winnebago's population was two-thirdsCatholic, German and Irish, and very devout. 

Mrs. Brandeis stopped short. "How much for that lot?" She pointed to theshelf. Young Bauder's gaze followed hers, puzzled. The figures were fromfive inches to a foot high, in crude, effective blues, and gold, andcrimson, and white. All the saints were there in assorted sizes, thePieta, the cradle in the manger. There were probably two hundred ormore of the little figures. "Oh, those!" said young Bauder vaguely. "Youdon't want that stuff. Now, about that Limoges china. As I said, I canmake you a special price on it if you carry it as an open-stock pattern. You'll find----"

"How much for that lot?" repeated Mrs. Brandeis. 

"Those are left-over samples, Mrs. Brandeis. Last year's stuff. They'reall dirty. I'd forgotten they were there. "

"How much for the lot?" said Mrs. Brandeis, pleasantly, for the thirdtime. 

"I really don't know. Three hundred, I should say. But----"

"I'll give you two hundred, " ventured Mrs. Brandeis, her heart in hermouth and her mouth very firm. 

"Oh, come now, Mrs. Brandeis! Bauder & Peck don't do business that way, you know. We'd really rather not sell them at all. The things aren'tworth much to us, or to you, for that matter. But three hundred----"

"Two hundred, " repeated Mrs. Brandeis, "or I cancel my order, includingthe Limoges. I want those figures. "

And she got them. Which isn't the point of the story. The holy figureswere fine examples of foreign workmanship, their colors, beneaththe coating of dust, as brilliant and fadeless as those found in thechurches of Europe. They reached Winnebago duly, packed in straw andpaper, still dusty and shelf-worn. Mrs. Brandeis and Sadie and Pearl saton up-ended boxes at the rear of the store, in the big barn-like room inwhich newly arrived goods were unpacked. As Aloysius dived deep into thecrate and brought up figure after figure, the three women plunged theminto warm and soapy water and proceeded to bathe and scour the entireschool of saints, angels, and cherubim. They came out brilliantly freshand rosy. 

All the Irish ingenuity and artistry in Aloysius came to the surfaceas he dived again and again into the great barrel and brought up theglittering pieces. 

"It'll make an elegant window, " he gasped from the depths of the hay, his lean, lengthy frame jack-knifed over the edge. "And cheap. " Hisshrewd wit had long ago divined the store's price mark. "If FatherFitzpatrick steps by in the forenoon I'll bet they'll be gone beforenighttime to-morrow. You'll be letting me do the trim, Mrs. Brandeis?"

He came back that evening to do it, and he threw his whole soul into it, which, considering his ancestry and temperament, was very high voltagefor one small-town store window. He covered the floor of the window withblack crepe paper, and hung it in long folds, like a curtain, againstthe rear wall. The gilt of the scepters, and halos, and capes showed updazzlingly against this background. The scarlets, and pinks, and blues, and whites of the robes appeared doubly bright. The whole made a picturethat struck and held you by its vividness and contrast. 

Father Fitzpatrick, very tall and straight, and handsome, with hisiron-gray hair and his cheeks pink as a girl's, did step by next morningon his way to the post-office. It was whispered that in his youth FatherFitzpatrick had been an actor, and that he had deserted the footlightsfor the altar lights because of a disappointment. The drama's loss wasthe Church's gain. You should have heard him on Sunday morning, nowflaying them, now swaying them! He still had the actor's flexible voice, vibrant, tremulous, or strident, at will. And no amount of fasting orpraying had ever dimmed that certain something in his eye--the somethingwhich makes the matinee idol. 

Not only did he step by now; he turned, came back; stopped before thewindow. Then he entered. 

"Madam, " he said to Mrs. Brandeis, "you'll probably save more souls withyour window display than I could in a month of hell-fire sermons. " Heraised his hand. "You have the sanction of the Church. " Which was thebeginning of a queer friendship between the Roman Catholic priest andthe Jewess shopkeeper that lasted as long as Molly Brandeis lived. 

By noon it seemed that the entire population of Winnebago had turneddevout. The figures, a tremendous bargain, though sold at a high profit, seemed to melt away from the counter that held them. 

By three o'clock, "Only one to a customer!" announced Mrs. Brandeis. Bythe middle of the week the window itself was ravished of its show. Bythe end of the week there remained only a handful of the duller and lessdesirable pieces--the minor saints, so to speak. Saturday night Mrs. Brandeis did a little figuring on paper. The lot had cost her twohundred dollars. She had sold for six hundred. Two from six leaves four. Four hundred dollars! She repeated it to herself, quietly. Her mindleaped back to the plush photograph album, then to young Bauder and hiscool contempt. And there stole over her that warm, comfortable glow bornof reassurance and triumph. Four hundred dollars. Not much in thesedays of big business. We said, you will remember, that it was a pitifulenough little trick she turned to make it, though an honest one. And--inthe face of disapproval--a rather magnificent one too. For it gave toMolly Brandeis that precious quality, self-confidence, out of which isborn success. 

CHAPTER THREE

By spring Mrs. Brandeis had the farmer women coming to her for theirthreshing dishes and kitchenware, and the West End Culture Club fortheir whist prizes. She seemed to realize that the days of the generalstore were numbered, and she set about making hers a novelty store. There was something terrible about the earnestness with which shestuck to business. She was not more than thirty-eight at this time, intelligent, healthy, fun-loving. But she stayed at it all day. Shelistened and chatted to every one, and learned much. There was about herthat human quality that invites confidence. 

She made friends by the hundreds, and friends are a business asset. Those blithe, dressy, and smooth-spoken gentlemen known as traveling menused to tell her their troubles, perched on a stool near the stove, andshow her the picture of their girl in the back of their watch, and askedher to dinner at the Haley House. She listened to their tale of woe, and advised them; she admired the picture of the girl, and gave somewholesome counsel on the subject of traveling men's lonely wives; butshe never went to dinner at the Haley House. 

It had not taken these debonair young men long to learn that there was awoman buyer who bought quickly, decisively, and intelligently, and thatshe always demanded a duplicate slip. Even the most unscrupulous couldnot stuff an order of hers, and when it came to dating she gave noquarter. Though they wore clothes that were two leaps ahead of thestyles worn by the Winnebago young men--their straw sailors were likelyto be saw-edged when the local edges were smooth, and their coats weremore flaring, or their trousers wider than the coats and trousers ofthe Winnebago boys--they were not, for the most part, the gay dogs thatWinnebago's fancy painted them. Many of them were very lonely marriedmen who missed their wives and babies, and loathed the cuspidoreddiscomfort of the small-town hotel lobby. They appreciated Mrs. Brandeis' good-natured sympathy, and gave her the long end of a dealwhen they could. It was Sam Kiser who had begged her to listen tohis advice to put in Battenberg patterns and braid, long before theBattenberg epidemic had become widespread and virulent. 

"Now listen to me, Mrs. Brandeis, " he begged, almost tearfully. "You'rea smart woman. Don't let this get by you. You know that I know that asalesman would have as much chance to sell you a gold brick as to sellold John D. Rockefeller a gallon of oil. " Mrs. Brandeis eyed his samplescoldly. "But it looks so unattractive. And the average person hasno imagination. A bolt of white braid and a handful of buttons--theywouldn't get a mental picture of the completed piece. Now, embroiderysilk----"

"Then give 'em a real picture!" interrupted Sam. "Work up one of thesewater-lily pattern table covers. Use No. 100 braid and the smallestbuttons. Stick it in the window and they'll tear their hair to getpatterns. "

She did it, taking turns with Pearl and Sadie at weaving the great, lacysquare during dull moments. When it was finished they placed it inthe window, where it lay like frosted lace, exquisitely graceful anddelicate, with its tracery of curling petals and feathery fern sprays. Winnebago gazed and was bitten by the Battenberg bug. It wound itself upin a network of Battenberg braid, in all the numbers. It boughtbuttons of every size; it stitched away at Battenberg covers, doilies, bedspreads, blouses, curtains. Battenberg tumbled, foamed, cascaded overWinnebago's front porches all that summer. Listening to Sam Kiser haddone it. 

She listened to the farmer women too, and to the mill girls, and to thescant and precious pearls that dropped from the lips of the East Endsociety section. There was something about her brown eyes and herstraight, sensible nose that reassured them so that few suspected themischievous in her. For she was mischievous. If she had not been I thinkshe could not have stood the drudgery, and the heartbreaks, and thestruggle, and the terrific manual labor. 

She used to guy people, gently, and they never guessed it. Mrs. G. Manville Smith, for example, never dreamed of the joy that her patronagebrought Molly Brandeis, who waited on her so demurely. Mrs. G. ManvilleSmith (nee Finnegan) scorned the Winnebago shops, and was said to sendto Chicago for her hairpins. It was known that her household was run onthe most niggardly basis, however, and she short-rationed her two maidsoutrageously. It was said that she could serve less real food on morereal lace doilies than any other housekeeper in Winnebago. Now, Mrs. Brandeis sold Scourine two cents cheaper than the grocery stores, usingit as an advertisement to attract housewives, and making no profit onthe article itself. Mrs. G. Manville Smith always patronized Brandeis'Bazaar for Scourine alone, and thus represented pure loss. Also shemy-good-womaned Mrs. Brandeis. That lady, seeing her enter one day withher comic, undulating gait, double-actioned like a giraffe's, and herplumes that would have shamed a Knight of Pythias, decided to put a stopto these unprofitable visits. 

She waited on Mrs. G. Manville Smith, a dangerous gleam in her eye. 

"Scourine, " spake Mrs. G. Manville Smith. 

"How many?"

"A dozen. "

"Anything else?"

"No. Send them. "

Mrs. Brandeis, scribbling in her sales book, stopped, pencil poised. "Wecannot send Scourine unless with a purchase of other goods amounting toa dollar or more. "

Mrs. G. Manville Smith's plumes tossed and soared agitatedly. "But mygood woman, I don't want anything else!"

"Then you'll have to carry the Scourine?"

"Certainly not! I'll send for it. "

"The sale closes at five. " It was then 4:57. 

"I never heard of such a thing! You can't expect me to carry them. "

Now, Mrs. G. Manville Smith had been a dining-room girl at the old HaleyHouse before she married George Smith, and long before he made his moneyin lumber. 

"You won't find them so heavy, " Molly Brandeis said smoothly. 

"I certainly would! Perhaps you would not. You're used to that sort ofthing. Rough work, and all that. "

Aloysius, doubled up behind the lamps, knew what was coming, from thegleam in his boss's eye. 

"There may be something in that, " Molly Brandeis returned sweetly. "That's why I thought you might not mind taking them. They're really notmuch heavier than a laden tray. "

"Oh!" exclaimed the outraged Mrs. G. Manville Smith. And took her plumesand her patronage out of Brandeis' Bazaar forever. 

That was as malicious as Molly Brandeis ever could be. And it wasforgivable malice. 

Most families must be described against the background of their homes, but the Brandeis family life was bounded and controlled by the store. Their meals and sleeping hours and amusements were regulated by it. It taught them much, and brought them much, and lost them much. FannyBrandeis always said she hated it, but it made her wise, and tolerant, and, in the end, famous. I don't know what more one could ask of anyinstitution. It brought her in contact with men and women, taught herhow to deal with them. After school she used often to run down to thestore to see her mother, while Theodore went home to practice. Perchedon a high stool in some corner she heard, and saw, and absorbed. Itwas a great school for the sensitive, highly-organized, dramatic littleJewish girl, for, to paraphrase a well-known stage line, there are justas many kinds of people in Winnebago as there are in Washington. 

It was about this time that Fanny Brandeis began to realize, actively, that she was different. Of course, other little Winnebago girls' mothersdid not work like a man, in a store. And she and Bella Weinberg were theonly two in her room at school who stayed out on the Day of Atonement, and on New Year, and the lesser Jewish holidays. Also, she went totemple on Friday night and Saturday morning, when the other girls sheknew went to church on Sunday. These things set her apart in the littleMiddle Western town; but it was not these that constituted the realdifference. She played, and slept, and ate, and studied like theother healthy little animals of her age. The real difference wastemperamental, or emotional, or dramatic, or historic, or all four. Theywould be playing tag, perhaps, in one of the cool, green ravines thatwere the beauty spots of the little Wisconsin town. 

They nestled like exquisite emeralds in the embrace of the hills, thoseravines, and Winnebago's civic surge had not yet swept them away in adeluge of old tin cans, ashes, dirt and refuse, to be sold later forbuilding lots. The Indians had camped and hunted in them. The one underthe Court Street bridge, near the Catholic church and monastery, wasthe favorite for play. It lay, a lovely, gracious thing, below thehot little town, all green, and lush, and cool, a tiny stream dimplingthrough it. The plump Capuchin Fathers, in their coarse brown robes, knotted about the waist with a cord, their bare feet thrust intosandals, would come out and sun themselves on the stone bench at theside of the monastery on the hill, or would potter about the garden. And suddenly Fanny would stop quite still in the midst of her tag game, struck with the beauty of the picture it called from the past. 

Little Oriental that she was, she was able to combine the dry text ofher history book with the green of the trees, the gray of the church, and the brown of the monk's robes, and evolve a thrilling mental picturetherefrom. The tag game and her noisy little companions vanished. Shewas peopling the place with stealthy Indians. Stealthy, cunning, yetsavagely brave. They bore no relation to the abject, contemptible, andrather smelly Oneidas who came to the back door on summer mornings, incalico, and ragged overalls, with baskets of huckleberries on theirarm, their pride gone, a broken and conquered people. She saw them wild, free, sovereign, and there were no greasy, berry-peddling Oneidas amongthem. They were Sioux, and Pottawatomies (that last had the real Indiansound), and Winnebagos, and Menomonees, and Outagamis. She madethem taciturn, and beady-eyed, and lithe, and fleet, and every otheradjectival thing her imagination and history book could supply. Thefat and placid Capuchin Fathers on the hill became Jesuits, sinister, silent, powerful, with France and the Church of Rome behind them. Fromthe shelter of that big oak would step Nicolet, the brave, first amongWisconsin explorers, and last to receive the credit for his hardihood. Jean Nicolet! She loved the sound of it. And with him was La Salle, straight, and slim, and elegant, and surely wearing ruffles and plumesand sword even in a canoe. And Tonty, his Italian friend and fellowadventurer--Tonty of the satins and velvets, graceful, tactful, poised, a shadowy figure; his menacing iron hand, so feared by the ignorantsavages, encased always in a glove. Surely a perfumed g---- Slap! A rudeshove that jerked her head back sharply and sent her forward, stumbling, and jarred her like a fall. 

"Ya-a-a! Tag! You're it! Fanny's it!"

Indians, priests, cavaliers, coureurs de bois, all vanished. Fanny wouldstand a moment, blinking stupidly. The next moment she was runningas fleetly as the best of the boys in savage pursuit of one of hercompanions in the tag game. 

She was a strange mixture of tomboy and bookworm, which was a mercifullykind arrangement for both body and mind. The spiritual side of her wasgroping and staggering and feeling its way about as does that of anylittle girl whose mind is exceptionally active, and whose mother isunusually busy. It was on the Day of Atonement, known in the Hebrew asYom Kippur, in the year following her father's death that that side ofher performed a rather interesting handspring. 

Fanny Brandeis had never been allowed to fast on this, the greatest andmost solemn of Jewish holy days Molly Brandeis' modern side refusedto countenance the practice of withholding food from any child fortwenty-four hours. So it was in the face of disapproval that Fanny, making deep inroads into the steak and fried sweet potatoes at supper onthe eve of the Day of Atonement, announced her intention of fasting fromthat meal to supper on the following evening. She had just passed herplate for a third helping of potatoes. Theodore, one lap behind her inthe race, had entered his objection. 

"Well, for the land's sakes!" he protested. "I guess you're not the onlyone who likes sweet potatoes. "

Fanny applied a generous dab of butter to an already buttery morsel, andchewed it with an air of conscious virtue. 

"I've got to eat a lot. This is the last bite I'll have until to-morrownight. "

"What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Brandeis, sharply. 

"Yes, it is!" hooted Theodore. 

Fanny went on conscientiously eating as she explained. 

"Bella Weinberg and I are going to fast all day. We just want to see ifwe can. "

"Betcha can't, " Theodore said. 

Mrs. Brandeis regarded her small daughter with a thoughtful gaze. "Butthat isn't the object in fasting, Fanny--just to see if you can. Ifyou're going to think of food all through the Yom Kippur services----"

"I sha'n't?" protested Fanny passionately. "Theodore would, but Iwon't. "

"Wouldn't any such thing, " denied Theodore. "But if I'm going to playa violin solo during the memorial service I guess I've got to eat myregular meals. "

Theodore sometimes played at temple, on special occasions. Thelittle congregation, listening to the throbbing rise and fall of thisfifteen-year-old boy's violin playing, realized, vaguely, that here wassomething disturbingly, harrowingly beautiful. They did not know thatthey were listening to genius. 

Molly Brandeis, in her second best dress, walked to temple Yom Kippureve, her son at her right side, her daughter at her left. She had madeup her mind that she would not let this next day, with its poignantlybeautiful service, move her too deeply. It was the first since herhusband's death, and Rabbi Thalmann rather prided himself on hisrendition of the memorial service that came at three in the afternoon. 

A man of learning, of sweetness, and of gentle wit was Rabbi Thalmann, and unappreciated by his congregation. He stuck to the Scripturesfor his texts, finding Moses a greater leader than Roosevelt, andthe miracle of the Burning Bush more wonderful than the marvels oftwentieth-century wizardy in electricity. A little man, Rabbi Thalmann, with hands and feet as small and delicate as those of a woman. Fannyfound him fascinating to look on, in his rabbinical black broadclothand his two pairs of glasses perched, in reading, upon his small hookednose. He stood very straight in the pulpit, but on the street you sawthat his back was bent just the least bit in the world--or perhaps itwas only his student stoop, as he walked along with his eyes on theground, smoking those slender, dapper, pale brown cigars that looked asif they had been expressly cut and rolled to fit him. 

The evening service was at seven. The congregation, rustling in silks, was approaching the little temple from all directions. Inside, there wasa low-toned buzz of conversation. The Brandeis' seat was well towardthe rear, as befitted a less prosperous member of the rich littlecongregation. This enabled them to get a complete picture of the room inits holiday splendor. Fanny drank it in eagerly, her dark eyes softand luminous. The bare, yellow-varnished wooden pews glowed with thereflection from the chandeliers. The seven-branched candlesticks oneither side of the pulpit were entwined with smilax. The red plushcurtain that hung in front of the Ark on ordinary days, and the redplush pulpit cover too, were replaced by gleaming white satin edged withgold fringe and finished at the corners with heavy gold tassels. How therich white satin glistened in the light of the electric candles! FannyBrandeis loved the lights, and the gleam, and the music, so majestic, and solemn, and the sight of the little rabbi, sitting so straight andserious in his high-backed chair, or standing to read from the greatBible. There came to this emotional little Jewess a thrill that was notborn of religious fervor at all, I am afraid. 

The sheer drama of the thing got her. In fact, the thing she had setherself to do to-day had in it very little of religion. Mrs. Brandeishad been right about that. It was a test of endurance, as planned. Fanny had never fasted in all her healthy life. She would come home fromschool to eat formidable stacks of bread and butter, enhanced by brownsugar or grape jelly, and topped off with three or four apples from thebarrel in the cellar. Two hours later she would attack a supper of friedpotatoes, and liver, and tea, and peach preserve, and more stacks ofbread and butter. Then there were the cherry trees in the back yard, andthe berry bushes, not to speak of sundry bags of small, hard candiesof the jelly-bean variety, fitted for quick and secret munching duringschool. She liked good things to eat, this sturdy little girl, as didher friend, that blonde and creamy person, Bella Weinberg. The two girlsexchanged meaningful glances during the evening service. The Weinbergs, as befitted their station, sat in the third row at the right, and Bellahad to turn around to convey her silent messages to Fanny. Theevening service was brief, even to the sermon. Rabbi Thalmann and hiscongregation would need their strength for to-morrow's trial. 

The Brandeises walked home through the soft September night, and thechildren had to use all their Yom Kippur dignity to keep from scufflingthrough the piled-up drifts of crackling autumn leaves. Theodore went tothe cellar and got an apple, which he ate with what Fanny consideredan unnecessary amount of scrunching. It was a firm, juicy apple, and itgave forth a cracking sound when his teeth met in its white meat. Fanny, after regarding him with gloomy superiority, went to bed. 

She had willed to sleep late, for gastronomic reasons, but the mentalcommand disobeyed itself, and she woke early, with a heavy feeling. Early as it was, Molly Brandeis had tiptoed in still earlier to look ather strange little daughter. She sometimes did that on Saturday morningswhen she left early for the store and Fanny slept late. This morningFanny's black hair was spread over the pillow as she lay on her back, one arm outflung, the other at her breast. She made a rather startlinglyblack and white and scarlet picture as she lay there asleep. Fannydid things very much in that way, too, with broad, vivid, unmistakablesplashes of color. Mrs. Brandeis, looking at the black-haired, red-lipped child sleeping there, wondered just how much determinationlay back of the broad white brow. She had said little to Fanny aboutthis feat of fasting, and she told herself that she disapproved of it. But in her heart she wanted the girl to see it through, once attempted. 

Fanny awoke at half past seven, and her nostrils dilated to that mostexquisite, tantalizing and fragrant of smells--the aroma of simmeringcoffee. It permeated the house. It tickled the senses. It carried withit visions of hot, brown breakfast rolls, and eggs, and butter. Fannyloved her breakfast. She turned over now, and decided to go to sleepagain. But she could not. She got up and dressed slowly and carefully. There was no one to hurry her this morning with the call from the footof the stairs of, "Fanny! Your egg'll get cold!"

She put on clean, crisp underwear, and did her hair expertly. Sheslipped an all-enveloping pinafore over her head, that the new silkdress might not be crushed before church time. She thought that Theodorewould surely have finished his breakfast by this time. But when she camedown-stairs he was at the table. Not only that, he had just begun hisbreakfast. An egg, all golden, and white, and crisply brown at thefrilly edges, lay on his plate. Theodore always ate his egg in amathematical sort of way. He swallowed the white hastily first, becausehe disliked it, and Mrs. Brandeis insisted that he eat it. Then he wouldbrood a moment over the yolk that lay, unmarred and complete, like anamber jewel in the center of his plate. Then he would suddenly plungehis fork into the very heart of the jewel, and it would flow over hisplate, mingling with the butter, and he would catch it deftly withlittle mops of warm, crisp, buttery roll. 

Fanny passed the breakfast table just as Theodore plunged his fork intothe egg yolk. She caught her breath sharply, and closed her eyes. Thenshe turned and fled to the front porch and breathed deeply and windilyof the heady September Wisconsin morning air. As she stood there, withher stiff, short black curls still damp and glistening, in her bestshoes and stockings, with the all-enveloping apron covering her sturdylittle figure, the light of struggle and renunciation in her face, shetypified something at once fine and earthy. 

But the real struggle was to come later. They went to temple at ten, Theodore with his beloved violin tucked carefully under his arm. BellaWeinberg was waiting at the steps. 

"Did you?" she asked eagerly. 

"Of course not, " replied Fanny disdainfully. "Do you think I'd eat oldbreakfast when I said I was going to fast all day?" Then, with suddensuspicion, "Did you?"

"No!" stoutly. 

And they entered, and took their seats. It was fascinating to watch theother members of the congregation come in, the women rustling, the mensubdued in the unaccustomed dignity of black on a week day. One glanceat the yellow pews was like reading a complete social and financialregister. The seating arrangement of the temple was the Almanach deGotha of Congregation Emanu-el. Old Ben Reitman, patriarch among theJewish settlers of Winnebago, who had come over an immigrant youth, andwho now owned hundreds of rich farm acres, besides houses, mills andbanks, kinged it from the front seat of the center section. He was amagnificent old man, with a ruddy face, and a fine head with a shock ofheavy iron-gray hair, keen eyes, undimmed by years, and a startling andunexpected dimple in one cheek that gave him a mischievous and boyishlook. 

Behind this dignitary sat his sons, and their wives, and his daughtersand their husbands, and their children, and so on, back to the Brandeispew, third from the last, behind which sat only a few obscure familiesbranded as Russians, as only the German-born Jew can brand those whosemisfortune it is to be born in that region known as hinter-Berlin. 

The morning flew by, with its music, its responses, its sermon inGerman, full of four- and five-syllable German words like Barmherzigkeitand Eigentumlichkeit. All during the sermon Fanny sat and dreamed andwatched the shadow on the window of the pine tree that stood close tothe temple, and was vastly amused at the jaundiced look that the squareof yellow window glass cast upon the face of the vain and overdressedMrs. Nathan Pereles. From time to time Bella would turn to bestow uponher a look intended to convey intense suffering and a resolute thoughdying condition. Fanny stonily ignored these mute messages. Theyoffended something in her, though she could not tell what. 

At the noon intermission she did not go home to the tempting dinnersmells, but wandered off through the little city park and down to theriver, where she sat on the bank and felt very virtuous, and spiritual, and hollow. She was back in her seat when the afternoon service wasbegun. Some of the more devout members had remained to pray all throughthe midday. The congregation came straggling in by twos and threes. Many of the women had exchanged the severely corseted discomfort of themorning's splendor for the comparative ease of second-best silks. Mrs. Brandeis, absent from her business throughout this holy day, camehurrying in at two, to look with a rather anxious eye upon her pale andresolute little daughter. 

The memorial service was to begin shortly after three, and lasted almosttwo hours. At quarter to three Bella slipped out through the side aisle, beckoning mysteriously and alluringly to Fanny as she went. Fanny lookedat her mother. 

"Run along, " said Mrs. Brandeis. "The air will be good for you. Comeback before the memorial service begins. " Fanny and Bella met, giggling, in the vestibule. 

"Come on over to my house for a minute, " Bella suggested. "I wantto show you something. " The Weinberg house, a great, comfortable, well-built home, with encircling veranda, and a well-cared-for lawn, wasjust a scant block away. They skipped across the street, down the block, and in at the back door. The big sunny kitchen was deserted. The houseseemed very quiet and hushed. Over it hung the delicious fragrance offreshly-baked pastry. Bella, a rather baleful look in her eyes, led theway to the butler's pantry that was as large as the average kitchen. And there, ranged on platters, and baking boards, and on snowy-whitenapkins, was that which made Tantalus's feast seem a dry and barrensnack. The Weinberg's had baked. It is the custom in the household ofAtonement Day fasters of the old school to begin the evening meal, afterthe twenty-four hours of abstainment, with coffee and freshly-bakedcoffee cake of every variety. It was a lead-pipe blow at one'sdigestion, but delicious beyond imagining. Bella's mother was a famouscook, and her two maids followed in the ways of their mistress. Therewere to be sisters and brothers and out-of-town relations as guests atthe evening meal, and Mrs. Weinberg had outdone herself. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Fanny in a sort of agony and delight. 

"Take some, " said Bella, the temptress. 

The pantry was fragrant as a garden with spices, and fruit scents, and the melting, delectable perfume of brown, freshly-baked dough, sugar-coated. There was one giant platter devoted wholly to round, plumpcakes, with puffy edges, in the center of each a sunken pool that wasall plum, bearing on its bosom a snowy sifting of powdered sugar. There were others whose centers were apricot, pure molten gold inthe sunlight. There were speckled expanses of cheese kuchen, thegolden-brown surface showing rich cracks through which one caughtglimpses of the lemon-yellow cheese beneath--cottage cheese that hadbeen beaten up with eggs, and spices, and sugar, and lemon. Flaky crustrose, jaggedly, above this plateau. There were cakes with jelly, andcinnamon kuchen, and cunning cakes with almond slices nestling side byside. And there was freshly-baked bread--twisted loaf, with poppy seedfreckling its braid, and its sides glistening with the butter that hadbeen liberally swabbed on it before it had been thrust into the oven. 

Fanny Brandeis gazed, hypnotized. As she gazed Bella selected a plumtart and bit into it--bit generously, so that her white little teeth metin the very middle of the oozing red-brown juice and one heard a littlesquirt as they closed on the luscious fruit. At the sound Fanny quiveredall through her plump and starved little body. 

"Have one, " said Bella generously. "Go on. Nobody'll ever know. Anyway, we've fasted long enough for our age. I could fast till supper time ifI wanted to, but I don't want to. " She swallowed the last morsel ofthe plum tart, and selected another--apricot, this time, and opened hermoist red lips. But just before she bit into it (the Inquisition couldhave used Bella's talents) she selected its counterpart and held it outto Fanny. Fanny shook her head slightly. Her hand came up involuntarily. Her eyes were fastened on Bella's face. 

"Go on, " urged Bella. "Take it. They're grand! M-m-m-m!" The first biteof apricot vanished between her rows of sharp white teeth. Fanny shuther eyes as if in pain. She was fighting the great fight of her life. She was to meet other temptations, and perhaps more glittering ones, inher lifetime, but to her dying day she never forgot that first battlebetween the flesh and the spirit, there in the sugar-scented pantry--andthe spirit won. As Bella's lips closed upon the second bite of apricottart, the while her eye roved over the almond cakes and her hand stillheld the sweet out to Fanny, that young lady turned sharply, like asoldier, and marched blindly out of the house, down the back steps, across the street, and so into the temple. 

The evening lights had just been turned on. The little congregation, relaxed, weary, weak from hunger, many of them, sat rapt and stillexcept at those times when the prayer book demanded spoken responses. The voice of the little rabbi, rather weak now, had in it a timbrethat made it startlingly sweet and clear and resonant. Fanny slid veryquietly into the seat beside Mrs. Brandeis, and slipped her moistand cold little hand into her mother's warm, work-roughened palm. Themother's brown eyes, very bright with unshed tears, left their perusalof the prayer book to dwell upon the white little face that was smilingrather wanly up at her. The pages of the prayer book lay two-thirds ormore to the left. Just as Fanny remarked this, there was a little momentof hush in the march of the day's long service. The memorial hour hadbegun. 

Little Doctor Thalmann cleared his throat. The congregation stirred abit, changed its cramped position. Bella, the guilty, came stealing in, a pink-and-gold picture of angelic virtue. Fanny, looking at her, feltvery aloof, and clean, and remote. 

Molly Brandeis seemed to sense what had happened. 

"But you didn't, did you?" she whispered softly. 

Fanny shook her head. 

Rabbi Thalmann was seated in his great carved chair. His eyes wereclosed. The wheezy little organ in the choir loft at the rear of thetemple began the opening bars of Schumann's Traumerei. And then, abovethe cracked voice of the organ, rose the clear, poignant wail of aviolin. Theodore Brandeis had begun to play. You know the playing ofthe average boy of fifteen--that nerve-destroying, uninspired scraping. There was nothing of this in the sounds that this boy called forthfrom the little wooden box and the stick with its taut lines of catgut. Whatever it was--the length of the thin, sensitive fingers, the turn ofthe wrist, the articulation of the forearm, the something in the brain, or all these combined--Theodore Brandeis possessed that which makes forgreatness. You realized that as he crouched over his violin to get hiscello tones. As he played to-day the little congregation sat very still, and each was thinking of his ambitions and his failures; of the loverlost, of the duty left undone, of the hope deferred; of the wrong thatwas never righted; of the lost one whose memory spells remorse. It feltthe salt taste on its lips. It put up a furtive, shamed hand to dab atits cheeks, and saw that the one who sat in the pew just ahead was doinglikewise. This is what happened when this boy of fifteen wedded his bowto his violin. And he who makes us feel all this has that indefinable, magic, glorious thing known as Genius. 

When it was over, there swept through the room that sigh followingtension relieved. Rabbi Thalmann passed a hand over his tired eyes, likeone returning from a far mental journey; then rose, and came forwardto the pulpit. He began, in Hebrew, the opening words of the memorialservice, and so on to the prayers in English, with their words ofinfinite humility and wisdom. 

"Thou hast implanted in us the capacity for sin, but not sin itself!"

Fanny stirred. She had learned that a brief half hour ago. The servicemarched on, a moving and harrowing thing. The amens rolled out with anew fervor from the listeners. There seemed nothing comic now in the wayold Ben Reitman, with his slower eyes, always came out five words behindthe rest who tumbled upon the responses and scurried briskly throughthem, so that his fine old voice, somewhat hoarse and quavering now, rolled out its "Amen!" in solitary majesty. They came to that gem ofhumility, the mourners' prayer; the ancient and ever-solemn Kaddishprayer. There is nothing in the written language that, for sheer dramaand magnificence, can equal it as it is chanted in the Hebrew. 

As Rabbi Thalmann began to intone it in its monotonous repetition ofpraise, there arose certain black-robed figures from their places andstood with heads bowed over their prayer books. These were members ofthe congregation from whom death had taken a toll during the past year. Fanny rose with her mother and Theodore, who had left the choir loft tojoin them. The little wheezy organ played very softly. The black-robedfigures swayed. Here and there a half-stifled sob rose, and was crushed. Fanny felt a hot haze that blurred her vision. She winked it away, andanother burned in its place. Her shoulders shook with a sob. She felther mother's hand close over her own that held one side of the book. The prayer, that was not of mourning but of praise, ended with a finalcrescendo from the organ, The silent black-robed figures were seated. 

Over the little, spent congregation hung a glorious atmosphere ofdetachment. These Jews, listening to the words that had come from thelips of the prophets in Israel, had been, on this day, thrown backthousands of years, to the time when the destruction of the temple wasas real as the shattered spires and dome of the cathedral at Rheims. Old Ben Reitman, faint with fasting, was far removed from his everydaythoughts of his horses, his lumber mills, his farms, his mortgages. EvenMrs. Nathan Pereles, in her black satin and bugles and jets, hercold, hard face usually unlighted by sympathy or love, seemed to feelsomething of this emotional wave. Fanny Brandeis was shaken by it. Herhead ached (that was hunger) and her hands were icy. The little Russiangirl in the seat just behind them had ceased to wriggle and squirm, andslept against her mother's side. Rabbi Thalmann, there on the platform, seemed somehow very far away and vague. The scent of clove apples andammonia salts filled the air. The atmosphere seemed strangely waveringand luminous. The white satin of the Ark curtain gleamed and shifted. 

The long service swept on to its close. Suddenly organ and choir burstinto a paeon. Little Doctor Thalmann raised his arms. The congregationswept to its feet with a mighty surge. Fanny rose with them, her facevery white in its frame of black curls, her eyes luminous. She raisedher face for the words of the ancient benediction that rolled, in itssimplicity and grandeur, from the lips of the rabbi:

"May the blessing of the Lord our God rest upon you all. God bless theeand keep thee. May God cause His countenance to shine upon thee and begracious unto thee. May God lift up His countenance unto thee, and grantthee peace. "

The Day of Atonement had come to an end. It was a very quiet, subduedand spent little flock that dispersed to their homes. Fanny walked outwith scarcely a thought of Bella. She felt, vaguely, that she and thisschool friend were formed of different stuff. She knew that the bondbetween them had been the grubby, physical one of childhood, and thatthey never would come together in the finer relation of the spirit, though she could not have put this new knowledge into words. 

Molly Brandeis put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. 

"Tired, Fanchen?"

"A little. "

"Bet you're hungry!" from Theodore. 

"I was, but I'm not now. "

"M-m-m--wait! Noodle soup. And chicken!"

She had intended to tell of the trial in the Weinberg's pantry. But nowsomething within her--something fine, born of this day--kept her fromit. But Molly Brandeis, to whom two and two often made five, guessedsomething of what had happened. She had felt a great surge of pride, hadMolly Brandeis, when her son had swayed the congregation with the magicof his music. She had kissed him good night with infinite tenderness andlove. But she came into her daughter's tiny room after Fanny had gone tobed, and leaned over, and put a cool hand on the hot forehead. 

"Do you feel all right, my darling?"

"Umhmph, " replied Fanny drowsily. 

"Fanchen, doesn't it make you feel happy and clean to know that you wereable to do the thing you started out to do?"

"Umhmph. "

"Only, " Molly Brandeis was thinking aloud now, quite forgetting thatshe was talking to a very little girl, "only, life seems to takesuch special delight in offering temptation to those who are able towithstand it. I don't know why that's true, but it is. I hope--oh, mylittle girl, my baby--I hope----"

But Fanny never knew whether her mother finished that sentence or not. She remembered waiting for the end of it, to learn what it was hermother hoped. And she had felt a sudden, scalding drop on her hand whereher mother bent over her. And the next thing she knew it was morning, with mellow September sunshine. 

CHAPTER FOUR

It was the week following this feat of fasting that two things happenedto Fanny Brandeis--two seemingly unimportant and childish things--thatwere to affect the whole tenor of her life. It is pleasant topredict thus. It gives a certain weight to a story and a sense ofinevitableness. It should insure, too, the readers's support to thepoint, at least, where the prediction is fulfilled. Sometimes a carelessauthor loses sight altogether of his promise, and then the trickedreader is likely to go on to the very final page, teased by theexpectation that that which was hinted at will be revealed. 

Fanny Brandeis had a way of going to the public library on Saturdayafternoons (with a bag of very sticky peanut candy in her pocket, thelittle sensualist!) and there, huddled in a chair, dreamily and almostautomatically munching peanut brittle, her cheeks growing redder andredder in the close air of the ill-ventilated room, she would read, and read, and read. There was no one to censor her reading, so sheread promiscuously, wading gloriously through trash and classic andhistorical and hysterical alike, and finding something of interest inthem all. 

She read the sprightly "Duchess" novels, where mad offers of marriagewere always made in flower-scented conservatories; she read Dickens, andThelma, and old bound Cosmopolitans, and Zola, and de Maupassant, andthe "Wide, Wide World, " and "Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates, "and "Jane Eyre. " All of which are merely mentioned as examples of hercatholicism in literature. As she read she was unaware of the gigglingboys and girls who came in noisily, and made dates, and were coldlyfrowned on by the austere Miss Perkins, the librarian. She would readuntil the fading light would remind her that the short fall or winterday was drawing to a close. 

She would come, shivering a little after the fetid atmosphere ofthe overheated library, into the crisp, cold snap of the astringentWisconsin air. Sometimes she would stop at the store for her mother. Sometimes she would run home alone through the twilight, her heelsscrunching the snow, her whole being filled with a vague and unchildishsadness and disquiet as she faced the tender rose, and orange, andmauve, and pale lemon of the winter sunset. There were times when hervery heart ached with the beauty of that color-flooded sky; there weretimes, later, when it ached in much the same way at the look in the eyesof a pushcart peddler; there were times when it ached, seemingly, for noreason at all--as is sometimes the case when one is a little Jew girl, with whole centuries of suffering behind one. 

On this day she had taken a book from the library Miss Perkins, at sightof the title, had glared disapprovingly, and had hesitated a momentbefore stamping the card. 

"Is this for yourself?" she had asked. 

"Yes'm. "

"It isn't a book for little girls, " snapped Miss Perkins. 

"I've read half of it already, " Fanny informed her sweetly. And went outwith it under her arm. It was Zola's "The Ladies' Paradise" (Au Bonheurdes Dames). The story of the shop girl, and the crushing of the littledealer by the great and moneyed company had thrilled and fascinated her. 

Her mind was full of it as she turned the corner on Norris Street andran full-tilt, into a yowling, taunting, torturing little pack of boys. They were gathered in close formation about some object which they wereteasing, and knocking about in the mud, and otherwise abusing with thesavagery of their years. Fanny, the fiery, stopped short. She pushedinto the ring. The object of their efforts was a weak-kneed andhollow-chested little boy who could not fight because he was cowardlyas well as weak, and his name (oh, pity!) was Clarence--Clarence Heyl. There are few things that a mischievous group of small boys cannotdo with a name like Clarence. They whined it, they catcalled it, they shrieked it in falsetto imitation of Clarence's mother. He was awide-mouthed, sallow and pindling little boy, whose pipe-stemmed legslooked all the thinner for being contrasted with his feet, which werelong and narrow. At that time he wore spectacles, too, to correct amuscular weakness, so that his one good feature--great soft, liquideyes--passed unnoticed. He was the kind of little boy whose motherinsists on dressing him in cloth-top, buttoned, patent-leather shoes forschool. His blue serge suit was never patched or shiny. His stockingswere virgin at the knee. He wore an overcoat on cool autumn days. Fannydespised and pitied him. We ask you not to, because in this puny, shyand ugly little boy of fifteen you behold Our Hero. 

He staggered to his feet now, as Fanny came up. His school reefer wasmud-bespattered. His stockings were torn. His cap was gone and his hairwas wild. There was a cut or scratch on one cheek, from which the bloodflowed. 

"I'll tell my mother on you!" he screamed impotently, and shook withrage and terror. "You'll see, you will! You let me alone, now!"

Fanny felt a sick sensation at the pit of her stomach and in her throat. Then:

"He'll tell his ma!" sneered the boys in chorus. "Oh, mamma!" And calledhim the Name. And at that a she wildcat broke loose among them. Shepounced on them without warning, a little fury of blazing eyes andflying hair, and white teeth showing in a snarl. If she had foughtfair, or if she had not taken them so by surprise, she would have beenpowerless among them. But she had sprung at them with the suddennessof rage. She kicked, and scratched, and bit, and clawed and spat. Sheseemed not to feel the defensive blows that were showered upon her inturn. Her own hard little fists were now doubled for a thump or opened, like a claw, for scratching. 

"Go on home!" she yelled to Clarence, even while she fought. AndClarence, gathering up his tattered school books, went, and stood not onthe order of his going. Whereupon Fanny darted nimbly to one side, outof the way of boyish brown fists. In that moment she was transformedfrom a raging fury into a very meek and trembling little girl, wholooked shyly and pleadingly out from a tangle of curls. The boys werefor rushing at her again. 

"Cowardy-cats! Five of you fighting one girl, " cried Fanny, her lowerlip trembling ever so little. "Come on! Hit me! Afraid to fight anythingbut girls! Cowardy-cats!" A tear, pearly, pathetic, coursed down hercheek. 

The drive was broken. Five sullen little boys stood and glared at her, impotently. 

"You hit us first, " declared one boy. "What business d' you havescratching around like that, I'd like to know! You old scratch cat!"

"He's sickly, " said Fanny. "He can't fight. There's something the matterwith his lungs, or something, and they're going to make him quit school. Besides, he's a billion times better than any of you, anyway. "

At once, "Fanny's stuck on Clar-ence! Fanny's stuck on Clar-ence!"

Fanny picked up her somewhat battered Zola from where it had flown ather first onslaught. "It's a lie!" she shouted. And fled, followed bythe hateful chant. 

She came in at the back door, trying to look casual. But Mattie's keeneye detected the marks of battle, even while her knife turned the fryingpotatoes. 

"Fanny Brandeis! Look at your sweater! And your hair!"

Fanny glanced down at the torn pocket dangling untidily. "Oh, that!" shesaid airily. And, passing the kitchen table, deftly filched a slice ofcold veal from the platter, and mounted the back stairs to her room. Itwas a hungry business, this fighting. When Mrs. Brandeis came in at sixher small daughter was demurely reading. At supper time Mrs. Brandeislooked up at her daughter with a sharp exclamation. 

"Fanny! There's a scratch on your cheek from your eye to your chin. "

Fanny put up her hand. "Is there?"

"Why, you must have felt it. How did you get it?"

Fanny said nothing. "I'll bet she was fighting, " said Theodore with theintuitive knowledge that one child has of another's ways. 

"Fanny!" The keen brown eyes were upon her. "Some boys were picking onClarence Heyl, and it made me mad. They called him names. "

"What names?"

"Oh, names. "

"Fanny dear, if you're going to fight every time you hear that name----"

Fanny thought of the torn sweater, the battered Zola, the scratchedcheek. "It is pretty expensive, " she said reflectively. 

After supper she settled down at once to her book. Theodore would laborover his algebra after the dining-room table was cleared. He stuck hiscap on his head now, and slammed out of the door for a half-hour's playunder the corner arc-light. Fanny rarely brought books from school, andyet she seemed to get on rather brilliantly, especially in the studiesshe liked. During that winter following her husband's death Mrs. Brandeis had a way of playing solitaire after supper; one of thesimpler forms of the game. It seemed to help her to think out the day'sproblems, and to soothe her at the same time. She would turn down thefront of the writing desk, and draw up the piano stool. 

All through that winter Fanny seemed to remember reading to theslap-slap of cards, and the whir of their shuffling. In after years shewas never able to pick up a volume of Dickens without having her mindhark back to those long, quiet evenings. She read a great deal ofDickens at that time. She had a fine contempt for his sentiment, and hisgreat ladies bored her. She did not know that this was because they werebadly drawn. The humor she loved, and she read and reread the passagesdealing with Samuel Weller, and Mr. Micawber, and Sairey Gamp, and FannySqueers. It was rather trying to read Dickens before supper, she haddiscovered. Pickwick Papers was fatal, she had found. It sent one to thepantry in a sort of trance, to ransack for food--cookies, apples, coldmeat, anything. But whatever one found, it always fell short of thesucculent sounding beefsteak pies, and saddles of mutton, and hotpineapple toddy of the printed page. 

To-night Mrs. Brandeis, coming in from the kitchen after a conferencewith Mattie, found her daughter in conversational mood, though book inhand. 

"Mother, did you ever read this?" She held up "The Ladies' Paradise. "

"Yes; but child alive, what ever made you get it? That isn't the kind ofthing for you to read. Oh, I wish I had more time to give----"

Fanny leaned forward eagerly. "It made me think a lot of you. Youknow--the way the big store was crushing the little one, and everything. Like the thing you were talking to that man about the other day. Yousaid it was killing the small-town dealer, and he said some day it wouldbe illegal, and you said you'd never live to see it. "

"Oh, that! We were talking about the mail-order business, and how hardit was to compete with it, when the farmers bought everything from acatalogue, and had whole boxes of household goods expressed to them. Ididn't know you were listening, Fanchen. "

"I was. I almost always do when you and some traveling man or somebodylike that are talking. It--it's interesting. "

Fanny went back to her book then. But Molly Brandeis sat a moment, eyeing her queer little daughter thoughtfully. Then she sighed, and laidout her cards for solitaire. By eight o'clock she was usually so sleepythat she would fall, dead-tired, asleep on the worn leather couch in thesitting-room. She must have been fearfully exhausted, mind and body. Thehouse would be very quiet, except for Mattie, perhaps, moving about inthe kitchen or in her corner room upstairs. Sometimes the weary womanon the couch would start suddenly from her sleep and cry out, chokedand gasping, "No! No! No!" The children would jump, terrified, and comerunning to her at first, but later they got used to it, and only lookedup to say, when she asked them, bewildered, what it was that wakenedher, "You had the no-no-nos. "

She had never told of the thing that made her start out of her sleep andcry out like that. Perhaps it was just the protest of the exhaustedbody and the overwrought nerves. Usually, after that, she would situp, haggardly, and take the hairpins out of her short thick hair, andannounce her intention of going to bed. She always insisted that thechildren go too, though they often won an extra half hour by protestingand teasing. It was a good thing for them, these nine o'clock bed hours, for it gave them the tonic sleep that their young, high-strung naturesdemanded. 

"Come, children, " she would say, yawning. 

"Oh, mother, please just let me finish this chapter!"

"How much?"

"Just this little bit. See? Just this. "

"Well, just that, then, " for Mrs. Brandeis was a reasonable woman, andshe had the book-lover's knowledge of the fascination of the unfinishedchapter. 

Fanny and Theodore were not always honest about the bargain. They wouldgallop, hot-cheeked, through the allotted chapter. Mrs. Brandeis wouldhave fallen into a doze, perhaps. And the two conspirators would readon, turning the leaves softly and swiftly, gulping the pages, crammingthem down in an orgy of mental bolting, like naughty children stuffingcake when their mother's back is turned. But the very concentration oftheir dread of waking her often brought about the feared result. Mrs. Brandeis would start up rather wildly, look about her, and see the twoburied, red-cheeked and eager, in their books. 

"Fanny! Theodore! Come now! Not another minute!"

Fanny, shameless little glutton, would try it again. "Just to the end ofthis chapter! Just this weenty bit!"

"Fiddlesticks! You've read four chapters since I spoke to you the lasttime. Come now!"

Molly Brandeis would see to the doors, and the windows, and the clock, and then, waiting for the weary little figures to climb the stairs, would turn out the light, and, hairpins in one hand, corset in theother, perhaps, mount to bed. 

By nine o'clock the little household would be sleeping, the childrensweetly and dreamlessly, the tired woman restlessly and fitfully, heroverwrought brain still surging with the day's problems. It was not likea household at rest, somehow. It was like a spirited thing standing, quivering for a moment, its nerves tense, its muscles twitching. 

Perhaps you have quite forgotten that here were to be retailed twoepochal events in Fanny Brandeis's life. If you have remembered, youwill have guessed that the one was the reading of that book of socialprotest, though its writer has fallen into disfavor in these fickledays. The other was the wild and unladylike street brawl in which shetook part so that a terrified and tortured little boy might escape histormentors. 

CHAPTER FIVE

There was no hard stock in Brandeis' Bazaar now. The packing-room wasalways littered with straw and excelsior dug from hogsheads and greatcrates. Aloysius lorded it over a small red-headed satellite whodisappeared inside barrels and dived head first into huge boxes, coming up again with a lamp, or a doll, or a piece of glassware, likea magician. Fanny, perched on an overturned box, used to watch him, fascinated, while he laboriously completed a water set, or a tea set. A preliminary dive would bring up the first of a half dozen relatedpieces, each swathed in tissue paper. A deft twist on the part ofthe attendant Aloysius would strip the paper wrappings and disclosea ruby-tinted tumbler, perhaps. Another dive, and another, until sixgleaming glasses stood revealed, like chicks without a hen mother. Afinal dip, much scratching and burrowing, during which armfuls of hayand excelsior were thrown out, and then the red-headed genie of thebarrel would emerge, flushed and triumphant, with the water pitcheritself, thus completing the happy family. 

Aloysius, meanwhile, would regale her with one of those choice bits ofgossip he had always about him, like a jewel concealed, and only to bebrought out for the appreciative. Mrs. Brandeis disapproved of storegossip, and frowned on Sadie and Pearl whenever she found them, theirheads close together, their stifled shrieks testifying to his wit. Therewere times when Molly Brandeis herself could not resist the spell of histongue. No one knew where Aloysius got his information. He had news thatWinnebago's two daily papers never could get, and wouldn't have dared toprint if they had. 

"Did you hear about Myrtle Krieger, " he would begin, "that's marryin'the Hempel boy next month? The one in the bank. She's exhibiting hertrewsow at the Outagamie County Fair this week, for the handwork andembroid'ry prize. Ain't it brazen? They say the crowd's so thick aroundthe table that they had to take down the more pers'nal pieces. The firstday of the fair the grand-stand was, you might say, empty, even whenthey was pullin' off the trottin' races and the balloon ascension. It'sfunny--ain't it?--how them garmints that you wouldn't turn for a secondlook at on the clothesline or in a store winda' becomes kind of wickedand interestin' the minute they get what they call the human note. Thereit lays, that virgin lawnjerie, for all the county to look at, with pinkribbons run through everything, and the poor Krieger girl never dreamin'she's doin' somethin' indelicate. She says yesterday if she wins theprize she's going to put it toward one of these kitchen cabinets. "

I wish we could stop a while with Aloysius. He is well worth it. Aloysius, who looked a pass between Ichabod Crane and Smike; Aloysius, with his bit of scandal burnished with wit; who, after a long, hardSaturday, would go home to scrub the floor of the dingy lodgings wherehe lived with his invalid mother, and who rose in the cold dawn ofSunday morning to go to early mass, so that he might return to cook thedinner and wait upon the sick woman. Aloysius, whose trousers flappedgrotesquely about his bony legs, and whose thin red wrists hungawkwardly from his too-short sleeves, had in him that tender, faithfuland courageous stuff of which unsung heroes are made. And he adored hisclever, resourceful boss to the point of imitation. You should have seenhim trying to sell a sled or a doll's go-cart in her best style. But wecannot stop for Aloysius. He is irrelevant, and irrelevant matter haltsthe progress of a story. Any one, from Barrie to Harold Bell Wright, will tell you that a story, to be successful, must march. 

We'll keep step, then, with Molly Brandeis until she drops out of theranks. There is no detouring with Mrs. Brandeis for a leader. She is thesort that, once her face is set toward her goal, looks neither to rightnor left until she has reached it. 

When Fanny Brandeis was fourteen, and Theodore was not quite sixteen, a tremendous thing happened. Schabelitz, the famous violinist, came toWinnebago to give a concert under the auspices of the Young Men's SundayEvening Club. 

The Young Men's Sunday Evening Club of the Congregational Church prideditself (and justifiably) on what the papers called its "auspices. " Itscorned to present to Winnebago the usual lyceum attractions--Swiss bellringers, negro glee clubs, and Family Fours. Instead, Schumann-Heinksang her lieder for them; McCutcheon talked and cartooned for them;Madame Bloomfield-Zeisler played. Winnebago was one of those wealthylittle Mid-Western towns whose people appreciate the best and set out toacquire it for themselves. 

To the Easterner, Winnebago, and Oshkosh, and Kalamazoo, and Emporia arenames invented to get a laugh from a vaudeville audience. Yet it is thepeople from Winnebago and Emporia and the like whom you meet in Egypt, and the Catalina Islands, and at Honolulu, and St. Moritz. It is in theWinnebago living-room that you are likely to find a prayer rug got inPersia, a bit of gorgeous glaze from China, a scarf from some temple inIndia, and on it a book, hand-tooled and rare. The Winnebagoans seem toknow what is being served and worn, from salad to veilings, surprisinglysoon after New York has informed itself on those subjects. The7:52 Northwestern morning train out of Winnebago was always prettycomfortably crowded with shoppers who were taking a five-hour run downto Chicago to get a hat and see the new musical show at the Illinois. 

So Schabelitz's coming was an event, but not an unprecedented one. Except to Theodore. Theodore had a ticket for the concert (his motherhad seen to that), and he talked of nothing else. He was going with hisviolin teacher, Emil Bauer. There were strange stories as to why EmilBauer, with his gift of teaching, should choose to bury himself in thisobscure little Wisconsin town. It was known that he had acquaintancewith the great and famous of the musical world. The East End set fawnedupon him, and his studio suppers were the exclusive social events inWinnebago. 

Schabelitz was to play in the evening. At half past three that afternoonthere entered Brandeis' Bazaar a white-faced, wide-eyed boy who wasTheodore Brandeis; a plump, voluble, and excited person who was EmilBauer; and a short, stocky man who looked rather like a foreign-bornartisan--plumber or steam-fitter--in his Sunday clothes. This was LevineSchabelitz. 

Molly Brandeis was selling a wash boiler to a fussy housewife who, inher anxiety to assure herself of the flawlessness of her purchase, haddone everything but climb inside it. It had early been instilled in theminds of Mrs. Brandeis's children that she was never to be approachedwhen busy with a customer. There were times when they rushed into thestore bursting with news or plans, but they had learned to controltheir eagerness. This, though, was no ordinary news that had blanchedTheodore's face. At sight of the three, Mrs. Brandeis quietly turnedher boiler purchaser over to Pearl and came forward from the rear of thestore. 

"Oh, Mother!" cried Theodore, an hysterical note in his voice. "Oh, Mother!"

And in that moment Molly Brandeis knew. Emil Bauer introduced them, floridly. Molly Brandeis held out her hand, and her keen brown eyeslooked straight and long into the gifted Russian's pale blue ones. According to all rules he should have started a dramatic speech, beginning with "Madame!" hand on heart. But Schabelitz the great hadsprung from Schabelitz the peasant boy, and in the process he hadmanaged, somehow, to retain the simplicity which was his charm. Still, there was something queer and foreign in the way he bent over Mrs. Brandeis's hand. We do not bow like that in Winnebago. 

"Mrs. Brandeis, I am honored to meet you. "

"And I to meet you, " replied the shopkeeper in the black sateen apron. 

"I have just had the pleasure of hearing your son play, " beganSchabelitz. 

"Mr. Bauer called me out of my economics class at school, Mother, andsaid that----"

"Theodore!" Theodore subsided. "He is only a boy, " went on Schabelitz, and put one hand on Theodore's shoulder. "A very gifted boy. I hearhundreds. Oh, how I suffer, sometimes, to listen to their devilishscraping! To-day, my friend Bauer met me with that old plea, `You musthear this pupil play. He has genius. ' `Bah! Genius!' I said, and I sworeat him a little, for he is my friend, Bauer. But I went with him to hisstudio--Bauer, that is a remarkably fine place you have there, abovethat drug store; a room of exceptional proportions. And those rugs, letme tell you----"

"Never mind the rugs, Schabelitz. Mrs. Brandeis here----"

"Oh, yes, yes! Well, dear lady, this boy of yours will be a greatviolinist if he is willing to work, and work, and work. He has what youin America call the spark. To make it a flame he must work, always work. You must send him to Dresden, under Auer. "

"Dresden!" echoed Molly Brandeis faintly, and put one hand on the tablethat held the fancy cups and saucers, and they jingled a little. 

"A year, perhaps, first, in New York with Wolfsohn. "

Wolfsohn! New York! Dresden! It was too much even for Molly Brandeis'well-balanced brain. She was conscious of feeling a little dizzy. Atthat moment Pearl approached apologetically. "Pardon me, Mis' Brandeis, but Mrs. Trost wants to know if you'll send the boiler special thisafternoon. She wants it for the washing early to-morrow morning. "

That served to steady her. 

"Tell Mrs. Trost I'll send it before six to-night. " Her eyes rested onTheodore's face, flushed now, and glowing. Then she turned and facedSchabelitz squarely. "Perhaps you do not know that this store is oursupport. I earn a living here for myself and my two children. You seewhat it is--just a novelty and notion store in a country town. I speakof this because it is the important thing. I have known for a longtime that Theodore's playing was not the playing of the average boy, musically gifted. So what you tell me does not altogether surprise me. But when you say Dresden--well, from Brandeis' Bazaar in Winnebago, Wisconsin, to Auer, in Dresden, Germany, is a long journey for oneafternoon. "

"But of course you must have time to think it over. It must be broughtabout, somehow. "

"Somehow----" Mrs. Brandeis stared straight ahead, and you could almosthear that indomitable will of hers working, crashing over obstacles, plowing through difficulties. Theodore watched her, breathless, asthough expecting an immediate solution. His mother's eyes met his ownintent ones, and at that her mobile mouth quirked in a sudden smile. "You look as if you expected pearls to pop out of my mouth, son. And, by the way, if you're going to a concert this evening don't you thinkit would be a good idea to squander an hour on study this afternoon? Youmay be a musical prodigy, but geometry's geometry. "

"Oh, Mother! Please!"

"I want to talk to Mr. Schabelitz and Mr. Bauer, alone. " She patted hisshoulder, and the last pat ended in a gentle push. "Run along. "

"I'll work, Mother. You know perfectly well I'll work. " But he lookedso startlingly like his father as he said it that Mrs. Brandeis felt aclutching at her heart. 

Theodore out of the way, they seemed to find very little to discuss, after all. Schabelitz was so quietly certain, Bauer so triumphantlyproud. 

Said Schabelitz, "Wolfsohn, of course, receives ten dollars a lessonordinarily. "

"Ten dollars!"

"But a pupil like Theodore is in the nature of an investment, " Bauerhastened to explain. "An advertisement. After hearing him play, andafter what Schabelitz here will have to say for him, Wolfsohn willcertainly give Theodore lessons for nothing, or next to nothing. Youremember"--proudly--"I offered to teach him without charge, but youwould not have it. "

Schabelitz smote his friend sharply on the shoulder "The true musician!Oh, Bauer, Bauer! That you should bury yourself in this----"

But Bauer stopped him with a gesture. "Mrs. Brandeis is a busy woman. And as she says, this thing needs thinking over. "

"After all, " said Mrs. Brandeis, "there isn't much to think about. Iknow just where I stand. It's a case of mathematics, that's all. Thisbusiness of mine is just beginning to pay. From now on I shall be ableto save something every year. It might be enough to cover his musicaleducation. It would mean that Fanny--my daughter--and I would have togive up everything. For myself, I should be only too happy, too proud. But it doesn't seem fair to her. After all, a girl----"

"It isn't fair, " broke in Schabelitz. "It isn't fair. But that is theway of genius. It never is fair. It takes, and takes, and takes. I know. My mother could tell you, if she were alive. She sold the little farm, and my sisters gave up their dowries, and with them their hopes ofmarriage, and they lived on bread and cabbage. That was not to pay formy lessons. They never could have done that. It was only to send me toMoscow. We were very poor. They must have starved. I have come to know, since, that it was not worth it. That nothing could be worth it. "

"But it was worth it. Your mother would do it all over again, if she hadthe chance. That's what we're for. "

Bauer pulled out his watch and uttered a horrified exclamation. "Himmel!Four o'clock! And I have a pupil at four. " He turned hastily to Mrs. Brandeis. "I am giving a little supper in my studio after the concertto-night. "

"Oh, Gott!" groaned Schabelitz. 

"It is in honor of Schabelitz here. You see how overcome he is. Will youlet me bring Theodore back with me after the concert? There will be somemusic, and perhaps he will play for us. "

Schabelitz bent again in his queer little foreign bow. "And you, ofcourse, will honor us, Mrs. Brandeis. " He had never lived in Winnebago. 

"Oh, certainly, " Bauer hastened to say. He had. 

"I!" Molly Brandeis looked down at her apron, and stroked it with herfingers. Then she looked up with a little smile that was not so pleasantas her smile usually was. There had flashed across her quick mind apicture of Mrs. G. Manville Smith. Mrs. G. Manville Smith, in an eveninggown whose decolletage was discussed from the Haley House to Gerretson'sdepartment store next morning, was always a guest at Bauer's studioaffairs. "Thank you, but it is impossible. And Theodore is only aschoolboy. Just now he needs, more than anything else in the world, nine hours of sleep every night. There will be plenty of time for studiosuppers later. When a boy's voice is changing, and he doesn't know whatto do with his hands and feet, he is better off at home. "

"God! These mothers!" exclaimed Schabelitz. "What do they not know!"

"I suppose you are right. " Bauer was both rueful and relieved. Itwould have been fine to show off Theodore as his pupil and Schabelitz'sprotege. But Mrs. Brandeis? No, that would never do. "Well, I must go. We will talk about this again, Mrs. Brandeis. In two weeks Schabelitzwill pass through Winnebago again on his way back to Chicago. Meanwhilehe will write Wolfsohn. I also. So! Come, Schabelitz!"

He turned to see that gentleman strolling off in the direction of thenotion counter behind which his expert eye had caught a glimpse of Sadiein her white shirtwaist and her trim skirt. Sadie always knew what theywere wearing on State Street, Chicago, half an hour after Mrs. Brandeisreturned from one of her buying trips. Shirtwaists had just come in, andwith them those neat leather belts with a buckle, and about the throatthey were wearing folds of white satin ribbon, smooth and high andtight, the two ends tied pertly at the back. Sadie would never be thesaleswoman that Pearl was, but her unfailing good nature and her cheeryself-confidence made her an asset in the store. Besides, she was pretty. Mrs. Brandeis knew the value of a pretty clerk. 

At the approach of this stranger Sadie leaned coyly against the stockingrack and patted her paper sleevelets that were secured at wrist andelbow with elastic bands. Her method was sure death to traveling men. She prepared now to try it on the world-famous virtuoso. The ease withwhich she succeeded surprised even Sadie, accustomed though she was toconquest. 

"Come, come, Schabelitz!" said Bauer again. "I must get along. "

"Then go, my friend. Go along and make your preparations for that studiosupper. The only interesting woman in Winnebago--" he bowed to Mrs. Brandeis--"will not be there. I know them, these small-town societywomen, with their imitation city ways. And bony! Always! I am enjoyingmyself. I shall stay here. "

And he did stay. Sadie, talking it over afterward with Pearl andAloysius, put it thus:

"They say he's the grandest violin player in the world. Not that I caremuch for the violin, myself. Kind of squeaky, I always think. But itjust goes to show they're all alike. Ain't it the truth? I jollied himjust like I did Sam Bloom, of Ganz & Pick, Novelties, an hour before. Helaughed just where Sam did. And they both handed me a line of talk aboutmy hair and eyes, only Sam said I was a doll, and this Schabelitz, orwhatever his name is, said I was as alluring as a Lorelei. I guess hethought he had me there, but I didn't go through the seventh reader fornothing. `If you think I'm flattered, ' I said to him, `you're mistaken. She was the mess who used to sit out on a rock with her back hair down, combing away and singing like mad, and keeping an eye out for sailors upand down the river. If I had to work that hard to get some attention, 'I said, `I'd give up the struggle, and settle down with a cat and ateakettle. ' At that he just threw back his head and roared. And whenMrs. Brandeis came up he said something about the wit of these Americanwomen. `Work is a great sharpener of wit--and wits, ' Mrs. Brandeis saidto him. `Pearl, did Aloysius send Eddie out with that boiler, special?'And she didn't pay any more attention to him, or make any more fussover him, than she would to a traveler with a line of samples she wasn'tinterested in. I guess that's why he had such a good time. "

Sadie was right. That was the reason. Fanny, coming into the store halfan hour later, saw this man who had swayed thousands with his music, down on his hands and knees in the toy section at the rear of Brandeis'Bazaar. He and Sadie and Aloysius were winding up toy bears, and clowns, and engines, and carriages, and sending them madly racing across thefloor. Sometimes their careening career was threatened with disasterin the form of a clump of brooms or a stack of galvanized pails. ButSchabelitz would scramble forward with a shout and rescue them justbefore the crash came, and set them deftly off again in the oppositedirection. 

"This I must have for my boy in New York. " He held up a miniature hookand ladder. "And this windmill that whirls so busily. My Leo is seven, and his head is full of engines, and motors, and things that run onwheels. He cares no more for music, the little savage, than the son of abricklayer. "

"Who is that man?" Fanny whispered, staring at him. 

"Levine Schabelitz. "

"Schabelitz! Not the--"

"Yes. "

"But he's playing on the floor like--like a little boy! And laughing!Why, Mother, he's just like anybody else, only nicer. "

If Fanny had been more than fourteen her mother might have told her thatall really great people are like that, finding joy in simple things. Ithink that is the secret of their genius--the child in them that keepstheir viewpoint fresh, and that makes us children again when we listento them. It is the Schabelitzes of this world who can shout over a toyengine that would bore a Bauer to death. 

Fanny stood looking at him thoughtfully. She knew all about him. Theodore's talk of the past week had accomplished that. Fanny knew thathere was a man who did one thing better than any one else in the world. She thrilled to that thought. She adored the quality in people thatcaused them to excel. Schabelitz had got hold of a jack-in-the-box, andeach time the absurd head popped out, with its grin and its squawk, helaughed like a boy. Fanny, standing behind the wrapping counter, andleaning on it with her elbows the better to see this great man, smiledtoo, as her flexible spirit and her mobile mind caught his mood. She didnot know she was smiling. Neither did she know why she suddenly frownedin the intensity of her concentration, reached up for one of the pencilson the desk next the wrapping counter, and bent over the topmost sheetof yellow wrapping paper that lay spread out before her. Her tongue-tipcurled excitedly at one corner of her mouth. Her head was cocked to oneside. 

She was rapidly sketching a crude and startling likeness of LevineSchabelitz as he stood there with the ridiculous toy in his hand. Itwas a trick she often amused herself with at school. She had drawn herschool-teacher one day as she had looked when gazing up into the eyes ofthe visiting superintendent, who was a married man. Quite innocentlyand unconsciously she had caught the adoring look in the eyes of MissMcCook, the teacher, and that lady, happening upon the sketch later, haddealt with Fanny in a manner seemingly unwarranted. In the same way itwas not only the exterior likeness of the man which she was catchingnow--the pompadour that stood stiffly perpendicular like a brush; thesquare, yellow peasant teeth; the strong, slender hands and wrists; thestocky figure; the high cheek bones; the square-toed, foreign-lookingshoes and the trousers too wide at the instep to have been cut by anAmerican tailor. She caught and transmitted to paper, in some uncannyway, the simplicity of the man who was grinning at the jack-in-the-boxthat smirked back at him. Behind the veneer of poise and polish born ofsuccess and adulation she had caught a glimpse of the Russian peasantboy delighted with the crude toy in his hand. And she put it downeagerly, wetting her pencil between her lips, shading here, erasingthere. 

Mrs. Brandeis, bustling up to the desk for a customer's change, and witha fancy dish to be wrapped, in her hand, glanced over Fanny's shoulder. She leaned closer. "Why, Fanny, you witch!"

Fanny gave a little crow of delight and tossed her head in a way thatswitched her short curls back from where they had fallen over hershoulders. "It's like him, isn't it?"

"It looks more like him than he does himself. " With which Molly Brandeisunconsciously defined the art of cartooning. 

Fanny looked down at it, a smile curving her lips. Mrs. Brandeis, dishin hand, counted her change expertly from the till below the desk, andreached for the sheet of wrapping paper just beneath that on which Fannyhad made her drawing. At that moment Schabelitz, glancing up, saw her, and came forward, smiling, the jack-in-the-box still in his hand. 

"Dear lady, I hope I have not entirely disorganized your shop. I havehad a most glorious time. Would you believe it, this jack-in-the-boxlooks exactly--but exactly--like my manager, Weber, when the box-officereceipts are good. He grins just--"

And then his eye fell on the drawing that Fanny was trying to cover withone brown paw. "Hello! What's this?" Then he looked at Fanny. Then hegrasped her wrist in his fingers of steel and looked at the sketch thatgrinned back at him impishly. "Well, I'm damned!" exploded Schabelitz inamusement, and surprise, and appreciation. And did not apologize. "Andwho is this young lady with the sense of humor?"

"This is my little girl, Fanny. "

He looked down at the rough sketch again, with its clean-cut satire, andup again at the little girl in the school coat and the faded red tam o'shanter, who was looking at him shyly, and defiantly, and provokingly, all at once. 

"Your little girl Fanny, h'm? The one who is to give up everything thatthe boy Theodore may become a great violinist. " He bent again over thecrude, effective cartoon, then put a forefinger gently under the child'schin and tipped her glowing face up to the light. "I am not so sure nowthat it will work. As for its being fair! Why, no! No!"

Fanny waited for her mother that evening, and they walked home together. Their step and swing were very much alike, now that Fanny's legs weregrowing longer. She was at the backfisch age. 

"What did he mean, Mother, when he said that about Theodore being agreat violinist, and its not being fair? What isn't fair? And how did hehappen to be in the store, anyway? He bought a heap of toys, didn't he?I suppose he's awfully rich. "

"To-night, when Theodore's at the concert, I'll tell you what he meant, and all about it. "

"I'd love to hear him play, wouldn't you? I'd just love to. "

Over Molly Brandeis's face there came a curious look. "You could hearhim, Fanny, in Theodore's place. Theodore would have to stay home if Itold him to. "

Fanny's eyes and mouth grew round with horror. "Theodore stay home! WhyMrs. --Molly--Brandeis!" Then she broke into a little relieved laugh. "But you're just fooling, of course. "

"No, I'm not. If you really want to go I'll tell Theodore to give up histicket to his sister. "

"Well, my goodness! I guess I'm not a pig. I wouldn't have Theodore stayhome, not for a million dollars. "

"I knew you wouldn't, " said Molly Brandeis as they swung down NorrisStreet. And she told Fanny briefly of what Schabelitz had said aboutTheodore. 

It was typical of Theodore that he ate his usual supper that night. Hemay have got his excitement vicariously from Fanny. She was thrilledenough for two. Her food lay almost untouched on her plate. Shechattered incessantly. When Theodore began to eat his second baked applewith cream, her outraged feelings voiced their protest. 

"But, Theodore, I don't see how you can!"

"Can what?"

"Eat like that. When you're going to hear him play. And after what hesaid, and everything. "

"Well, is that any reason why I should starve to death?"

"But I don't see how you can, " repeated Fanny helplessly, and lookedat her mother. Mrs. Brandeis reached for the cream pitcher and poureda little more cream over Theodore's baked apple. Even as she did ither eyes met Fanny's, and in them was a certain sly amusement, alittle gleam of fun, a look that said, "Neither do I. " Fanny sat back, satisfied. Here, at least, was some one who understood. 

At half past seven Theodore, looking very brushed and sleek, went off tomeet Emil Bauer. Mrs. Brandeis had looked him over, and had said, "Yournails!" and sent him back to the bathroom, and she had resisted thedesire to kiss him because Theodore disliked demonstration. "He hated tobe pawed over, " was the way he put it. After he had gone, Mrs. Brandeiswent into the dining-room where Fanny was sitting. Mattie had clearedthe table, and Fanny was busy over a book and a tablet, by the lightof the lamp that they always used for studying. It was one of the rareoccasions when she had brought home a school lesson. It was arithmetic, and Fanny loathed arithmetic. She had no head for mathematics. The setof problems were eighth-grade horrors, in which A is digging a well 20feet deep and 9 feet wide; or in which A and B are papering two rooms, or building two fences, or plastering a wall. If A does his room in 91/2 days, the room being 12 feet high, 20 feet long, and 15 1/2 feetwide, how long will it take B to do a room 14 feet high, 11 3/4 feet, etc. 

Fanny hated the indefatigable A and B with a bitter personal hatred. And as for that occasional person named C, who complicated matters stillmore--!

Sometimes Mrs. Brandeis helped to disentangle Fanny from the mazes ofher wall paper problems, or dragged her up from the bottom of the wellwhen it seemed that she was down there for eternity unless a friendlyhand rescued her. As a rule she insisted that Fanny crack her ownmathematical nuts. She said it was good mental training, not to speakof the moral side of it. But to-night she bent her quick mind upon theproblems that were puzzling her little daughter, and cleared them up inno time. 

When Fanny had folded her arithmetic papers neatly inside her book andleaned back with a relieved sigh Molly Brandeis bent forward in thelamplight and began to talk very soberly. Fanny, red-cheeked andbright-eyed from her recent mental struggles, listened interestedly, then intently, then absorbedly. She attempted to interrupt, sometimes, with an occasional, "But, Mother, how--" but Mrs. Brandeis shook herhead and went on. She told Fanny a few things about her early marriedlife--things that made Fanny look at her with new eyes. She had alwaysthought of her mother as her mother, in the way a fourteen-year-oldgirl does. It never occurred to her that this mother person, who wasso capable, so confident, so worldly-wise, had once been a very youngbride, with her life before her, and her hopes stepping high, and herlove keeping time with her hopes. Fanny heard, fascinated, the storyof this girl who had married against the advice of her family and herfriends. 

Molly Brandeis talked curtly and briefly, and her very brevity and lackof embroidering details made the story stand out with stark realism. Itwas such a story of courage, and pride, and indomitable will, and sheerpluck as can only be found among the seemingly commonplace. 

"And so, " she finished, "I used to wonder, sometimes, whether itwas worth while to keep on, and what it was all for. And now I know. Theodore is going to make up for everything. Only we'll have to helphim, first. It's going to be hard on you, Fanchen. I'm talking to you asif you were eighteen, instead of fourteen. But I want you to understand. That isn't fair to you either--my expecting you to understand. Only Idon't want you to hate me too much when you're a woman, and I'm gone, and you'll remember--"

"Why, Mother, what in the world are you talking about? Hate you!"

"For what I took from you to give to him, Fanny. You don't understandnow. Things must be made easy for Theodore. It will mean that you andI will have to scrimp and save. Not now and then, but all the time. It will mean that we can't go to the theater, even occasionally, or tolectures, or concerts. It will mean that your clothes won't be as prettyor as new as the other girls' clothes. You'll sit on the front porchevenings, and watch them go by, and you'll want to go too. "

"As if I cared. "

"But you will care. I know. I know. It's easy enough to talk aboutsacrifice in a burst of feeling; but it's the everyday, shriveling grindthat's hard. You'll want clothes, and books, and beaux, and education, and you ought to have them. They're your right. You ought to have them!"Suddenly Molly Brandeis' arms were folded on the table, and her headcame down on her arms and she was crying, quietly, horribly, as a mancries. Fanny stared at her a moment in unbelief. She had not seen hermother cry since the day of Ferdinand Brandeis' death. She scrambledout of her chair and thrust her head down next her mother's, so that herhot, smooth cheek touched the wet, cold one. "Mother, don't! Don't Mollydearie. I can't bear it. I'm going to cry too. Do you think I care forold dresses and things? I should say not. It's going to be fun goingwithout things. It'll be like having a secret or something. Now stop, and let's talk about it. "

Molly Brandeis wiped her eyes, and sat up, and smiled. It was a wateryand wavering smile, but it showed that she was mistress of herselfagain. 

"No, " she said, "we just won't talk about it any more. I'm tired, that'swhat's the matter with me, and I haven't sense enough to know it. I'lltell you what. I'm going to put on my kimono, and you'll make somefudge. Will you? We'll have a party, all by ourselves, and if Mattiescolds about the milk to-morrow you just tell her I said you could. AndI think there are some walnut meats in the third cocoa can on the shelfin the pantry. Use 'em all. "

CHAPTER SIX

Theodore came home at twelve o'clock that night. He had gone to Bauer'sstudio party after all. It was the first time he had deliberatelydisobeyed his mother in a really big thing. Mrs. Brandeis and Fanny hadnibbled fudge all evening (it had turned out deliciously velvety) andhad gone to bed at their usual time. At half past ten Mrs. Brandeis hadwakened with the instinctive feeling that Theodore was not in the house. She lay there, wide awake, staring into the darkness until eleven. Thenshe got up and went into his room, though she knew he was not there. She was not worried as to his whereabouts or his well-being. That sameinstinctive feeling told her where he was. She was very angry, and alittle terrified at the significance of his act. She went back to bedagain, and she felt the blood pounding in her head. Molly Brandeis had atemper, and it was surging now, and beating against the barriers of herself-control. 

She told herself, as she lay there, that she must deal with him coollyand firmly, though she wanted to spank him. The time for spankings waspast. Some one was coming down the street with a quick, light step. Shesat up in bed, listening. The steps passed the house, went on. A halfhour passed. Some one turned the corner, whistling blithely. But, no, hewould not be whistling, she told herself. He would sneak in, quietly. Itwas a little after twelve when she heard the front door open (Winnebagorarely locked its doors). She was surprised to feel her heart beatingrapidly. He was trying to be quiet, and was making a great deal ofnoise about it. His shoes and the squeaky fifth stair alone would haveconvicted him. The imp of perversity in Molly Brandeis made her smile, angry as she was, at the thought of how furious he must be at thatstair. 

"Theodore!" she called quietly, just as he was tip-toeing past her room. 

"Yeh. "

"Come in here. And turn on the light. "

He switched on the light and stood there in the doorway. Molly Brandeis, sitting up in bed in the chilly room, with her covers about her, wasconscious of a little sick feeling, not at what he had done, but thata son of hers should ever wear the sullen, defiant, hang-dog look thatdisfigured Theodore's face now. 

"Bauer's?"

A pause. "Yes. "

"Why?"

"I just stopped in there for a minute after the concert. I didn't meanto stay. And then Bauer introduced me around to everybody. And then theyasked me to play, and--"

"And you played badly. "

"Well, I didn't have my own violin. "

"No football game Saturday. And no pocket money this week. Go to bed. "

He went, breathing hard, and muttering a little under his breath. Atbreakfast next morning Fanny plied him with questions and was furious athis cool uncommunicativeness. 

"Was it wonderful, Theodore? Did he play--oh--like an angel?"

"Played all right. Except the `Swan' thing. Maybe he thought it was tooeasy, or something, but I thought he murdered it. Pass the toast, unlessyou want it all. "

It was not until the following autumn that Theodore went to New York. The thing that had seemed so impossible was arranged. He was to livein Brooklyn with a distant cousin of Ferdinand Brandeis, on a businessbasis, and he was to come into New York three times a week for hislessons. Mrs. Brandeis took him as far as Chicago, treated him to anextravagant dinner, put him on the train and with difficulty stifled theimpulse to tell all the other passengers in the car to look after herTheodore. He looked incredibly grown up and at ease in his new suit andthe hat that they had wisely bought in Chicago. She did not cry at all(in the train), and she kissed him only twice, and no man can ask morethan that of any mother. 

Molly Brandeis went back to Winnebago and the store with her shoulders alittle more consciously squared, her jaw a little more firmly set. Therewas something almost terrible about her concentrativeness. Together sheand Fanny began a life of self-denial of which only a woman could becapable. They saved in ways that only a woman's mind could devise; pettyways, that included cream and ice, and clothes, and candy. It was ratherfun at first. When that wore off it had become a habit. Mrs. Brandeismade two resolutions regarding Fanny. One was that she should have atleast a high school education, and graduate. The other that she shouldhelp in the business of the store as little as possible. To the firstFanny acceded gladly. To the second she objected. 

"But why? If you can work, why can't I? I could help you a lot onSaturdays and at Christmas time, and after school. "

"I don't want you to, " Mrs. Brandeis had replied, almost fiercely. "I'mgiving my life to it. That's enough. I don't want you to know aboutbuying and selling. I don't want you to know a bill of lading from asales slip when you see it. I don't want you to know whether f. O. B. Isa wireless signal or a branch of the Masons. " At which Fanny grinned. Noone appreciated her mother's humor more than she. 

"But I do know already. The other day when that fat man was selling youthose go-carts I heard him say. `F. O. B. Buffalo, ' and I asked Aloysiuswhat it meant and he told me. "

It was inevitable that Fanny Brandeis should come to know these things, for the little household revolved about the store on Elm Street. By thetime she was eighteen and had graduated from the Winnebago high school, she knew so many things that the average girl of eighteen did not know, and was ignorant of so many things that the average girl of eighteen didknow, that Winnebago was almost justified in thinking her queer. Shehad had a joyous time at school, in spite of algebra and geometry andphysics. She took the part of the heroine in the senior class play givenat the Winnebago opera house, and at the last rehearsal electrifiedthose present by announcing that if Albert Finkbein (who played thedashing Southern hero) didn't kiss her properly when the curtain wentdown on the first act, just as he was going into battle, she'd rather hedidn't kiss her at all. 

"He just makes it ridiculous, " she protested. "He sort of gives a pecktwo inches from my nose, and then giggles. Everybody will laugh, andit'll spoil everything. "

With the rather startled elocution teacher backing her she rehearsed thebashful Albert in that kiss until she had achieved the effect of realismthat she thought the scene demanded. But when, on the school sleighingparties and hay rides the boy next her slipped a wooden and uncertainarm about her waist while they all were singing "Jingle Bells, JingleBells, " and "Good Night Ladies, " and "Merrily We Roll Along, " she satup stiffly and unyieldingly until the arm, discouraged, withdrew to itsnormal position. Which two instances are quoted as being of a piece withwhat Winnebago termed her queerness. 

Not that Fanny Brandeis went beauless through school. On the contrary, she always had some one to carry her books, and to take her to theschool parties and home from the Friday night debating society meetings. Her first love affair turned out disastrously. She was twelve, and shechose as the object of her affections a bullet-headed boy named Simpson. One morning, as the last bell rang and they were taking their seats, Fanny passed his desk and gave his coarse and stubbly hair a tweak. Itwas really a love tweak, and intended to be playful, but she probablyput more fervor into it than she knew. It brought the tears of painto his eyes, and he turned and called her the name at which she shrankback, horrified. Her shock and unbelief must have been stamped on herface, for the boy, still smarting, had snarled, "Ya-as, I mean it. "

It was strange how she remembered that incident years after she hadforgotten important happenings in her life. Clarence Heyl, whose veryexistence you will have failed to remember, used to hover about heruncertainly, always looking as if he would like to walk home with her, but never summoning the courage to do it. They were graduated from thegrammar school together, and Clarence solemnly read a graduation essayentitled "Where is the Horse?" Automobiles were just beginning toflash plentifully up and down Elm Street. Clarence had always beenwhat Winnebago termed sickly, in spite of his mother's noodle soup, andcoddling. He was sent West, to Colorado, or to a ranch in Wyoming, Fannywas not quite sure which, perhaps because she was not interested. He hadcome over one afternoon to bid her good-by, and had dangled about thefront porch until she went into the house and shut the door. 

When she was sixteen there was a blond German boy whose taciturnityattracted her volubility and vivacity. She mistook his stolidness fordepth, and it was a long time before she realized that his silencewas not due to the weight of his thoughts but to the fact that hehad nothing to say. In her last year at high school she found herselfsingled out for the attentions of Harmon Kent, who was the Beau Nashof the Winnebago high school. His clothes were made by Schwartze, thetailor, when all the other boys of his age got theirs at the spring andfall sales of the Golden Eagle Clothing Store. It was always nip andtuck between his semester standings and his track team and footballpossibilities. The faculty refused to allow flunkers to take part inathletics. 

He was one of those boys who have definite charm, and manner, and poiseat seventeen, and who crib their exams off their cuffs. He was always atthe head of any social plans in the school, and at the dances he rushedabout wearing in his coat lapel a ribbon marked Floor Committee. Theteachers all knew he was a bluff, but his engaging manner carriedhim through. When he went away to the state university he made Fannysolemnly promise to write; to come down to Madison for the footballgames; to be sure to remember about the Junior prom. He wrote once--abadly spelled scrawl--and she answered. But he was the sort of personwho must be present to be felt. He could not project his personality. When he came home for the Christmas holidays Fanny was helping in thestore. He dropped in one afternoon when she was selling whisky glassesto Mike Hearn of the Farmers' Rest Hotel. 

They did not write at all during the following semester, and when hecame back for the long summer vacation they met on the street one dayand exchanged a few rather forced pleasantries. It suddenly dawned onFanny that he was patronizing her much as the scion of an aristocraticline banters the housemaid whom he meets on the stairs. She bit animaginary apron corner, and bobbed a curtsy right there on Elm Street, in front of the Courier office and walked off, leaving him staring. It was shortly after this that she began a queer line of reading fora girl--lives of Disraeli, Spinoza, Mendelssohn, Mozart--distinguishedJews who had found their religion a handicap. 

The year of her graduation she did a thing for which Winnebago feltitself justified in calling her different. Each member of the graduatingclass was allowed to choose a theme for a thesis. Fanny Brandeis calledhers "A Piece of Paper. " On Winnebago's Fox River were located a numberof the largest and most important paper mills in the country. There weremills in which paper was made of wood fiber, and others in which paperwas made of rags. You could smell the sulphur as soon as you crossed thebridge that led to the Flats. Sometimes, when the wind was right, thepungent odor of it spread all over the town. Strangers sniffed it andmade a wry face, but the natives liked it. 

The mills themselves were great ugly brick buildings, their windowsfestooned with dust webs. Some of them boasted high detached tower-likestructures where a secret acid process went on. In the early days themills had employed many workers, but newly invented machinery had cometo take the place of hand labor. The rag-rooms alone still employedhundreds of girls who picked, sorted, dusted over the great suctionbins. The rooms in which they worked were gray with dust. They wore capsover their hair to protect it from the motes that you could see spinningand swirling in the watery sunlight that occasionally found its waythrough the gray-filmed window panes. It never seemed to occur to themthat the dust cap so carefully pulled down about their heads did notafford protection for their lungs. They were pale girls, the rag-roomgirls, with a peculiarly gray-white pallor. 

Fanny Brandeis had once been through the Winnebago Paper Company's milland she had watched, fascinated, while a pair of soiled and greasy oldblue overalls were dusted and cleaned, and put through this acid vat, and that acid tub, growing whiter and more pulpy with each process untilit was fed into a great crushing roller that pressed the moisture outof it, flattened it to the proper thinness and spewed it out at last, miraculously, in the form of rolls of crisp, white paper. On the firstday of the Easter vacation Fanny Brandeis walked down to the office ofthe Winnebago Paper Company's mill and applied at the superintendent'soffice for a job. She got it. They were generally shorthanded in therag-room. When Mrs. Brandeis heard of it there followed one of the fewstormy scenes between mother and daughter. 

"Why did you do it?" demanded Mrs. Brandeis. 

"I had to, to get it right. "

"Oh, don't be silly. You could have visited the mill a dozen times. "

Fanny twisted the fingers of her left hand in the fingers of her rightas was her way when she was terribly in earnest, and rather excited. 

"But I don't want to write about the paper business as a process. "

"Well, then, what do you want?"

"I want to write about the overalls on some railroad engineer, perhaps;or the blue calico wrapper that belonged, maybe, to a scrub woman. Andhow they came to be spotted, or faded, or torn, and finally all wornout. And how the rag man got them, and the mill, and how the girlssorted them. And the room in which they do it. And the bins. And themachinery. Oh, it's the most fascinating, and--and sort of relentlessmachinery. And the acid burns on the hands of the men at the vats. Andtheir shoes. And then the paper, so white. And the way we tear it up, or crumple it, and throw it in the waste basket. Just a piece of paper, don't you see what I mean? Just a piece of paper, and yet all that--"she stopped and frowned a little, and grew inarticulate, and gave it upwith a final, "Don't you see what I mean, Mother? Don't you see what Imean?"

Molly Brandeis looked at her daughter in a startled way, like one who, walking tranquilly along an accustomed path, finds himself confronting anew and hitherto unsuspected vista, formed by a peculiar arrangement ofclouds, perhaps, or light, or foliage, or all three blended. "I seewhat you mean, " she said. "But I wish you wouldn't do it. I--I wish youdidn't feel that you wanted to do it. "

"But how can I make it real if I don't?"

"You can't, " said Molly Brandeis. "That's just it. You can't, ever. "

Fanny got up before six every morning of that Easter vacation, and wentto the mill, lunch box in hand. She came home at night dead-tired. Shedid not take the street car to and from the mill, as she might have, because she said the other girls in the rag-room walked, some of themfrom the very edge of town. Mrs. Brandeis said that she was carryingthings too far, but Fanny stuck it out for the two weeks, at the endof which period she spent an entire Sunday in a hair-washing, face-steaming, and manicuring bee. She wrote her paper from notes shehad taken, and turned it in at the office of the high school principalwith the feeling that it was not at all what she had meant it to be. Aweek later Professor Henning called her into his office. The essay layon his desk. 

"I've read your thesis, " he began, and stopped, and cleared his throat. He was not an eloquent man. "Where did you get your information, MissBrandeis?"

"I got it at the mill. "

"From one of the employees?"

"Oh, no. I worked there, in the rag-room. "

Professor Henning gave a little startled exclamation that he turnedhastily into a cough. "I thought that perhaps the editor of the Couriermight like to see it--it being local. And interesting. "

He brought it down to the office of the little paper himself, andpromised to call for it again in an hour or two, when Lem Davis shouldhave read it. Lem Davis did read it, and snorted, and scuffled with hisfeet in the drift of papers under his desk, which was a way he had whenenraged. 

"Read it!" he echoed, at Professor Henning's question. "Read it! Yes, Iread it. And let me tell you it's socialism of the rankest kind, that'swhat! It's anarchism, that's what! Who's this girl? Mrs. Brandeis'sdaughter--of the Bazaar? Let me tell you I'd go over there and tell herwhat I think of the way she's bringing up that girl--if she wasn't anadvertiser. `A Piece of Paper'! Hell!" And to show his contempt for whathe had read he wadded together a great mass of exchanges that litteredhis desk and hurled them, a crumpled heap, to the floor, and then spattobacco juice upon them. 

"I'm sorry, " said Professor Henning, and rose; but at the door he turnedand said something highly unprofessorial. "It's a darn fine pieceof writing. " And slammed the door. At supper that night he told Mrs. Henning about it. Mrs. Henning was a practical woman, as the wife of asmall-town high school principal must needs be. "But don't you know, "she said, "that Roscoe Moore, who is president of the Outagamie PulpMill and the Winnebago Paper Company, practically owns the Courier?"

Professor Henning passed a hand over his hair, ruefully, like a schoolboy. "No, Martha, I didn't know. If I knew those things, dear, I supposewe wouldn't be eating sausage for supper to-night. " There was a littlesilence between them. Then he looked up. "Some day I'm going to bragabout having been that Brandeis girl's teacher. "

Fanny was in the store a great deal now. After she finished high schoolthey sent Mattie away and Fanny took over the housekeeping duties, butit was not her milieu. Not that she didn't do it well. She put a perfectfury of energy and care into the preparation of a pot roast. After shehad iced a cake she enhanced it with cunning arabesques of jelly. Thehouse shone as it never had, even under Mattie's honest regime. Butit was like hitching a high-power engine to a butter churn. There wereperiods of maddening restlessness. At such times she would setabout cleaning the cellar, perhaps. It was a three-roomed cellar, brick-floored, cool, and having about it that indefinable cellar smellwhich is of mold, and coal, and potatoes, and onions, and kindling wood, and dill pickles and ashes. 

Other girls of Fanny's age, at such times, cleaned out their bureaudrawers and read forbidden novels. Fanny armed herself with the thirdbest broom, the dust-pan, and an old bushel basket. She swept up chips, scraped up ashes, scoured the preserve shelves, washed the windows, cleaned the vegetable bins, and got gritty, and scarlet-cheeked andstreaked with soot. It was a wonderful safety valve, that cellar. A pityit was that the house had no attic. 

Then there were long, lazy summer afternoons when there was nothing todo but read. And dream. And watch the town go by to supper. I think thatis why our great men and women so often have sprung from small towns, orvillages. They have had time to dream in their adolescence. No carsto catch, no matinees, no city streets, none of the teeming, empty, energy-consuming occupations of the city child. Little that iscompetitive, much that is unconsciously absorbed at the mostimpressionable period, long evenings for reading, long afternoons in thefields or woods. With the cloth laid, and the bread cut and covered witha napkin, and the sauce in the glass bowl, and the cookies on a blueplate, and the potatoes doing very, very slowly, and the kettle steamingwith a Peerybingle cheerfulness, Fanny would stroll out to the frontporch again to watch for the familiar figure to appear around the cornerof Norris Street. She would wear her blue-and-white checked ginghamapron deftly twisted over one hip, and tucked in, in deference to thepassers-by. And the town would go by--Hen Cody's drays, rattling andthundering; the high school boys thudding down the road, dog-tired andsweaty in their football suits, or their track pants and jersies, ontheir way from the athletic field to the school shower baths; Mrs. Mosher flying home, her skirts billowing behind her, after a protractedafternoon at whist; little Ernie Trost with a napkin-covered peachbasket carefully balanced in his hand, waiting for the six-fifteeninterurban to round the corner near the switch, so that he could hand uphis father's supper; Rudie Mass, the butcher, with a moist little packetof meat in his hand, and lurching ever so slightly, and looking aboutdefiantly. Oh, Fanny probably never realized how much she saw andabsorbed, sitting there on Brandeis' front porch, watching Winnebago goby to supper. 

At Christmas time she helped in the store, afternoons and evenings. Then, one Christmas, Mrs. Brandeis was ill for three weeks with grippe. They had to have a helper in the house. When Mrs. Brandeis was able tocome back to the store Sadie left to marry, not one of her traveling-menvictims, but a steady person, in the paper-hanging way, whose suit hadlong been considered hopeless. After that Fanny took her place. Shedeveloped a surprising knack at selling. Yet it was not so surprising, perhaps, when one considered her teacher. She learned as only a womancan learn who is brought into daily contact with the outside world. It was not only contact: it was the relation of buyer and seller. Shelearned to judge people because she had to. How else could one gaugetheir tastes, temperaments, and pocketbooks? They passed in and outof Brandeis' Bazaar, day after day, in an endless and variedprocession--traveling men, school children, housewives, farmers, worriedhostesses, newly married couples bent on house furnishing, business men. 

She learned that it was the girls from the paper mills who boughtthe expensive plates--the ones with the red roses and green leaveshand-painted in great smears and costing two dollars and a half, whilethe golf club crowd selected for a gift or prize one of the little whiteplates with the faded-looking blue sprig pattern, costing thirty-ninecents. One day, after she had spent endless time and patience over thesale of a nondescript little plate to one of Winnebago's socially elect, she stared wrathfully after the retreating back of the trying customer. 

"Did you see that? I spent an hour with her. One hour! I showed hereverything from the imported Limoges bowls to the Sevres cups andsaucers, and all she bought was that miserable little bonbon dish withthe cornflower pattern. Cat!"

Mrs. Brandeis spoke from the depths of her wisdom. 

"Fanny, I didn't miss much that went on during that hour, and I wasdying to come over and take her away from you, but I didn't because Iknew you needed the lesson, and I knew that that McNulty woman neverspends more than twenty-five cents, anyway. But I want to tell you nowthat it isn't only a matter of plates. It's a matter of understandingfolks. When you've learned whom to show the expensive hand-paintedthings to, and when to suggest quietly the little, vague things, withwhat you call the faded look, why, you've learned just about all thereis to know of human nature. Don't expect it, at your age. "

Molly Brandeis had never lost her trick of chatting with customers, orlistening to them, whenever she had a moment's time. People used to dropin, and perch themselves on one of the stools near the big glowing baseburner and talk to Mrs. Brandeis. It was incredible, the secrets theyrevealed of business, and love and disgrace; of hopes and aspirations, and troubles, and happiness. The farmer women used to fascinate Fannyby their very drabness. Mrs. Brandeis had a long and loyal followingof these women. It was before the day when every farmhouse boasted anautomobile, a telephone, and a phonograph. 

A worn and dreary lot, these farmer women, living a skimmed milkexistence, putting their youth, and health, and looks into the soil. They used often to sit back near the stove in winter, or in a coolcorner near the front of the store in summer, and reveal, bit by bit, the sordid, tragic details of their starved existence. Fanny was oftenshocked 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 showedblue-white, glassily perfect false teeth that flashed incongruously inthe ruin of their wrinkled, sallow, weather-beaten faces. Mrs. Brandeiswould question them gently. 

Children? Ten. Living? Four. Doctor? Never had one in the house. Why? Hedidn't believe in them. No proper kitchen utensils, none of thedevices 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 bybit, as the woman sat there, a worn, unlovely figure, herhands--toil-blackened, seamed, calloused, unlovelier than any woman'shands were ever meant to be--lying in unaccustomed idleness in her lap. 

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

I think their loyalty to Mrs. Brandeis might be explained by her honestyand her sympathy. She was so square with them. When Minnie Mahler, outCenterville way, got married, she knew there would be no redundancy ofwater sets, hanging lamps, or pickle dishes. 

"I thought like I'd get her a chamber set, " Minnie's aunt would confideto Mrs. Brandeis. 

"Is this for Minnie Mahler, of Centerville?"

"Yes; she gets married Sunday. "

"I sold a chamber set for that wedding yesterday. And a set of dishes. But I don't think she's got a parlor lamp. At least I haven't sold one. Why don't you get her that? If she doesn't like it she can change it. Now there's that blue one with the pink roses. "

And Minnie's aunt would end by buying the lamp. 

Fanny learned that the mill girls liked the bright-colored and expensivewares, and why; she learned that the woman with the "fascinator" (tragicmisnomer!) over her head wanted the finest sled for her boy. She learnedto keep her temper. She learned to suggest without seeming to suggest. She learned to do surprisingly well all those things that her mother didso surprisingly well--surprisingly because both the women secretly hatedthe business of buying and selling. Once, on the Fourth of July, whenthere was a stand outside the store laden with all sorts of fireworks, Fanny came down to find Aloysius and the boy Eddie absent on other work, and Mrs. Brandeis momentarily in charge. The sight sickened her, theninfuriated her. 

"Come in, " she said, between her teeth. "That isn't your work. "

"Somebody had to be there. Pearl's at dinner. And Aloysius and Eddiewere--"

"Then leave it alone. We're not starving--yet. I won't have you sellingfireworks like that--on the street. I won't have it! I won't have it!"

The store was paying, now. Not magnificently, but well enough. Most ofthe money went to Theodore, in Dresden. He was progressing, though notso meteorically as Bauer and Schabelitz had predicted. But that sortof thing took time, Mrs. Brandeis argued. Fanny often found her motherlooking at her these days with a questioning sadness in her eyes. Onceshe suggested that Fanny join the class in drawing at the Winnebagouniversity--a small fresh-water college. Fanny did try it for a fewmonths, but the work was not what she wanted; they did fruit picturesand vases, with a book, on a table; or a clump of very pink and verywhite flowers. Fanny quit in disgust and boredom. Besides, they werebusy at the store, and needed her. 

There came often to Winnebago a woman whom Fanny Brandeis admiredintensely. She was a traveling saleswoman, successful, magnetic, andvery much alive. Her name was Mrs. Emma McChesney, and between her andMrs. Brandeis there existed a warm friendship. She always took dinnerwith Mrs. Brandeis and Fanny, and they made a special effort to give herall those delectable home-cooked dishes denied her in her endless roundof hotels. 

"Noodle soup!" she used to say, almost lyrically. 

"With real hand-made, egg noodles! You don't know what it means. Youhaven't been eating vermicelli soup all through Illinois and Wisconsin. "

"We've made a dessert, though, that--"

"Molly Brandeis, don't you dare to tell me what you've got for dessert. I couldn't stand it. But, oh, suppose, SUPPOSE it's homemade strawberryshortcake!"

Which it more than likely was. 

Fanny Brandeis used to think that she would dress exactly as Mrs. McChesney dressed, if she too were a successful business woman earning aman-size salary. Mrs. McChesney was a blue serge sort of woman--and herblue serge never was shiny in the back. Her collar, or jabot, or tie, or cuffs, or whatever relieving bit of white she wore, was always of thefreshest and crispest. Her hats were apt to be small and full of what isknown as "line. " She usually would try to arrange her schedule so as tospend a Sunday in Winnebago, and the three alert, humor-loving women, grown wise and tolerant from much contact with human beings, would havea delightful day together. 

"Molly, " Mrs. McChesney would say, when they were comfortably settledin the living-room, or on the front porch, "with your shrewdness, and experience, and brains, you ought to be one of those five or tenthousand a year buyers. You know how to sell goods and handle people. And you know values. That's all there is to the whole game of business. I don't advise you to go on the road. Heaven knows I wouldn't advise mydearest enemy to do that, much less a friend. But you could do biggerthings, and get bigger results. You know most of the big wholesalers, and retailers too. Why don't you speak to them about a departmentposition? Or let me nose around a bit for you. "

Molly Brandeis shook her head, though her expressive eyes were eagerand interested. "Don't you think I've thought of that, Emma? A thousandtimes? But I'm--I'm afraid. There's too much at stake. Suppose Icouldn't succeed? There's Theodore. His whole future is dependent on mefor the next few years. And there's Fanny here. No, I guess I'm too old. And I'm sure of the business here, small as it is. "

Emma McChesney glanced at the girl. "I'm thinking that Fanny has themaking of a pretty capable business woman herself. "

Fanny drew in her breath sharply, and her face sparkled into suddenlife, as always when she was tremendously interested. 

"Do you know what I'd do if I were in Mother's place? I'd take a great, big running jump for it and land! I'd take a chance. What is there forher in this town? Nothing! She's been giving things up all her life, andwhat has it brought her?"

"It has brought me a comfortable living, and the love of my twochildren, and the respect of my townspeople. "

"Respect? Why shouldn't they respect you? You're the smartest woman inWinnebago, and the hardest working. "

Emma McChesney frowned a little, in thought. "What do you two girls dofor recreation?"

"I'm afraid we have too little of that, Emma. I know Fanny has. I'm sodog-tired at the end of the day. All I want is to take my hairpins outand go to bed. "

"And Fanny?"

"Oh, I read. I'm free to pick my book friends, at least. "

"Now, just what do you mean by that, child? It sounds a little bitter. "

"I was thinking of what Chesterfield said in one of his Letters to HisSon. `Choose always to be in the society of those above you, ' he wrote. I guess he lived in Winnebago, Wisconsin. I'm a working woman, and aJew, and we haven't any money or social position. And unless she's aBecky Sharp any small town girl with all those handicaps might aswell choose a certain constellation of stars in the sky to wear as abreastpin, as try to choose the friends she really wants. "

From Molly Brandeis to Emma McChesney there flashed a look that said, "You see?" And from Emma McChesney to Molly Brandeis another that said, "Yes; and it's your fault. "

"Look here, Fanny, don't you see any boys--men?"

"No. There aren't any. Those who have any sense and initiative leaveto go to Milwaukee, or Chicago, or New York. Those that stay marry thebanker's lovely daughter. "

Emma McChesney laughed at that, and Molly Brandeis too, and Fanny joinedthem a bit ruefully. Then quite suddenly, there came into her face amelting, softening look that made it almost lovely. She crossed swiftlyover to where her mother sat, and put a hand on either cheek (grownthinner of late) and kissed the tip of her nose. "We don't care--really. Do we Mother? We're poor wurkin' girruls. But gosh! Ain't we proud?Mother, your mistake was in not doing as Ruth did. "

"Ruth?"

"In the Bible. Remember when What's-his-name, her husband, died? Didshe go back to her home town? No, she didn't. She'd lived there allher life, and she knew better. She said to Naomi, her mother-in-law, `Whither thou goest I will go. ' And she went. And when they got toBethlehem, Ruth looked around, knowingly, until she saw Boaz, thecatch of the town. So she went to work in his fields, gleaning, andshe gleaned away, trying to look just as girlish, and dreamy, andunconscious, but watching him out of the corner of her eye all thetime. Presently Boaz came along, looking over the crops, and he saw her. `Who's the new damsel?' he asked. `The peach?'"

"Fanny Brandeis, aren't you ashamed?"

"But, Mother, that's what it says in the Bible, actually. `Whose damselis this?' They told him it was Ruth, the dashing widow. After that itwas all off with the Bethlehem girls. Boaz paid no more attentionto them than if they had never existed. He married Ruth, and she ledsociety. Just a little careful scheming, that's all. "

"I should say you have been reading, Fanny Brandeis, " said EmmaMcChesney. She was smiling, but her eyes were serious. "Now listen tome, child. The very next time a traveling man in a brown suit and a rednecktie asks you to take dinner with him at the Haley House--even oneof those roast pork, queen-fritter-with-rum-sauce, Roman punch Sundaydinners--I want you to accept. "

"Even if he wears an Elks' pin, and a Masonic charm, and a diamond ringand a brown derby?" "Even if he shows you the letters from his girl inManistee, " said Mrs. McChesney solemnly. "You've been seeing too much ofFanny Brandeis. "

CHAPTER SEVEN

Theodore had been gone six years. His letters, all too brief, wereevents in the lives of the two women. They read and reread them. Fannyunconsciously embellished them with fascinating details made up out ofher own imagination. 

"They're really triumphs of stupidity and dullness, " she said one dayin disgust, after one of Theodore's long-awaited letters had provedparticularly dry and sparse. "Just think of it! Dresden, Munich, Leipsic, Vienna, Berlin, Frankfurt! And from his letters you would neverknow he had left Winnebago. I don't believe he actually sees anythingof these cities--their people, and the queer houses, and the streets. I suppose a new city means nothing to him but another platform, anotheraudience, another piano, all intended as a background for his violin. Hecould travel all over the world and it wouldn't touch him once. He's gothis mental fingers crossed all the time. "

Theodore had begun to play in concert with some success, but he wrotethat there was no real money in it yet. He was not well enough known. Ittook time. He would have to get a name in Europe before he could attemptan American tour. Just now every one was mad over Greinert. He wasdrawing immense audiences. He sent them a photograph at which theygasped, and then laughed, surprisedly. He looked so awfully German, sodifferent, somehow. 

"It's the way his hair is clipped, I suppose, " said Fanny. "High, likethat, on the temples. And look at his clothes! That tie! And his pants!And that awful collar! Why, his very features look German, don't they? Isuppose it's the effect of that haberdashery. "

A month after the photograph, came a letter announcing his marriage. Fanny's quick eye, leaping ahead from line to line, took in the factsthat her mind seemed unable to grasp. Her name was Olga Stumpf. (In themidst of her horror some imp in Fanny's brain said that her hands wouldbe red, and thick, with a name like that. ) An orphan. She sang. One ofthe Vienna concert halls, but so different from the other girls. And hewas so happy. And he hated to ask them for it, but if they could cable ahundred or so. That would help. And here was her picture. 

And there was her picture. One of the so-called vivacious type ofViennese of the lower class, smiling a conscious smile, her hairelaborately waved and dressed, her figure high-busted, narrow-waisted;earrings, chains, bracelets. You knew that she used a heavy scent. Shewas older than Theodore. Or perhaps it was the earrings. 

They cabled the hundred. 

After the first shock of it Molly Brandeis found excuses for him. "Hemust have been awfully lonely, Fanny. Often. And perhaps it will steadyhim, and make him more ambitious. He'll probably work all the hardernow. "

"No, he won't. But you will. And I will. I didn't mind working forTheodore, and scrimping, and never having any of the things I wanted, from blouses to music. But I won't work and deny myself to keep a great, thick, cheap, German barmaid, or whatever she is in comfort. I won't!"

But she did. And quite suddenly Molly Brandeis, of the straight, firmfigure and the bright, alert eye, and the buoyant humor, seemed to losesome of those electric qualities. It was an almost imperceptible lettingdown. You have seen a fine race horse suddenly break and lose his stridein the midst of the field, and pull up and try to gain it again, and gobravely on, his stride and form still there, but his spirit broken? Thatwas Molly Brandeis. 

Fanny did much of the buying now. She bought quickly and shrewdly, likeher mother. She even went to the Haley House to buy, when necessary, andWinnebagoans, passing the hotel, would see her slim, erect figure in oneof the sample-rooms with its white-covered tables laden with china, or glassware, or Christmas goods, or whatever that particular salesmanhappened to carry. They lifted their eye-brows at first, but, somehow, it was impossible to associate this girl with the blithe, shirt-sleeved, cigar-smoking traveling men who followed her about the sample-room, order book in hand. 

As time went on she introduced some new features into the business, and did away with various old ones. The overflowing benches outside thestore were curbed, and finally disappeared altogether. Fanny took chargeof the window displays, and often came back to the store at night tospend the evening at work with Aloysius. They would tack a pieceof muslin around the window to keep off the gaze of passers-by, andtogether evolve a window that more than made up for the absent showbenches. 

This, I suppose, is no time to stop for a description of Fanny Brandeis. And yet the impulse to do so is irresistible. Personally, I like toknow about the hair, and eyes, and mouth of the person whose life I amfollowing. How did she look when she said that? What sort of expressiondid she wear when this happened? Perhaps the thing that Fanny Brandeissaid about herself one day, when she was having one of her talks withEmma McChesney, who was on her fall trip for the Featherbloom PetticoatCompany, might help. 

"No ballroom would ever be hushed into admiring awe when I entered, " shesaid. "No waiter would ever drop his tray, dazzled, and no diners in arestaurant would stop to gaze at me, their forks poised halfway, theireyes blinded by my beauty. I could tramp up and down between the tablesfor hours, and no one would know I was there. I'm one of a million womenwho look their best in a tailor suit and a hat with a line. Not that Iever had either. But I have my points, only they're blunted just now. "

Still, that bit of description doesn't do, after all. Because she haddistinct charm, and some beauty. She was not what is known as the Jewishtype, in spite of her coloring. The hair that used to curl, wavednow. In a day when coiffures were a bird's-nest of puffs and curls andpompadour, she wore her hair straight back from her forehead and woundin a coil at the neck. Her face in repose was apt to be rather lifeless, and almost heavy. But when she talked, it flashed into sudden life, andyou found yourself watching her mouth, fascinated. It was the key toher whole character, that mouth. Mobile, humorous, sensitive, thesensuousness of the lower lip corrected by the firmness of the upper. She had large, square teeth, very regular, and of the yellow-white tonethat bespeaks health. She used to make many of her own clothes, and shealways trimmed her hats. Mrs. Brandeis used to bring home material andstyles from her Chicago buying trips, and Fanny's quick mind adaptedthem. She managed, somehow, to look miraculously well dressed. 

The Christmas following Theodore's marriage was the most successfulone in the history of Brandeis' Bazaar. And it bred in Fanny Brandeis alifelong hatred of the holiday season. In years after she always triedto get away from the city at Christmas time. The two women did the workof four men. They had a big stock on hand. Mrs. Brandeis was everywhereat once. She got an enormous amount of work out of her clerks, and theydid not resent it. It is a gift that all born leaders have. She herselfnever sat down, and the clerks unconsciously followed her example. Shenever complained of weariness, she never lost her temper, she never lostpatience with a customer, even the tight-fisted farmer type who doledtheir money out with that reluctance found only in those who have wrungit from the soil. 

In the midst of the rush she managed, somehow, never to fail to graspthe humor of a situation. A farmer woman came in for a doll's head, which she chose with incredible deliberation and pains. As it was beingwrapped she explained that it was for her little girl, Minnie. She hadpromised the head this year. Next Christmas they would buy a body forit. Molly Brandeis's quick sympathy went out to the little girl who wasto lavish her mother-love on a doll's head for a whole year. She saw thehead, in ghastly decapitation, staring stiffly out from the cushions ofthe chill and funereal parlor sofa, and the small Minnie peering in tofeast her eyes upon its blond and waxen beauty. 

"Here, " she had said, "take this, and sew it on the head, so Minnie'llhave something she can hold, at least. " And she had wrapped a pinkcambric, sawdust-stuffed body in with the head. 

It was a snowy and picturesque Christmas, and intensely cold, with thehard, dry, cutting cold of Wisconsin. Near the door the little storewas freezing. Every time the door opened it let in a blast. Near the bigglowing stove it was very hot. 

The aisles were packed so that sometimes it was almost impossible towedge one's way through. The china plates, stacked high, fairly meltedaway, as did the dolls piled on the counters. Mrs. Brandeis importedher china and dolls, and no store in Winnebago, not even Gerretson's bigdepartment store, could touch them for value. 

The two women scarcely stopped to eat in the last ten days of theholiday rush. Often Annie, the girl who had taken Mattie's place in thehousehold, would bring down their supper, hot and hot, and they wouldeat it quickly up in the little gallery where they kept the sleds, and doll buggies, and drums. At night (the store was open until ten oreleven at Christmas time) they would trudge home through the snow, sonumb with weariness that they hardly minded the cold. The icy wind cuttheir foreheads like a knife, and made the temples ache. The snow, hardand resilient, squeaked beneath their heels. They would open the frontdoor and stagger in, blinking. The house seemed so weirdly quiet andpeaceful after the rush and clamor of the store. 

"Don't you want a sandwich, Mother, with a glass of beer?"

"I'm too tired to eat it, Fanny. I just want to get to bed. "

Fanny grew to hate the stock phrases that met her with each customer. "Iwant something for a little boy about ten. He's really got everything. "Or, "I'm looking for a present for a lady friend. Do you think a platewould be nice?" She began to loathe them--these satiated little boys, these unknown friends, for whom she must rack her brains. 

They cleared a snug little fortune that Christmas. On Christmas Eve theysmiled wanly at each other, like two comrades who have fought and bledtogether, and won. When they left the store it was nearly midnight. Belated shoppers, bundle-laden, carrying holly wreaths, with strangehandles, and painted heads, and sticks protruding from lumpy brown paperburdens, were hurrying home. 

They stumbled home, too spent to talk. Fanny, groping for the keyhole, stubbed her toe against a wooden box between the storm door and theinner door. It had evidently been left there by the expressman or adelivery boy. It was a very heavy box. 

"A Christmas present!" Fanny exclaimed. "Do you think it is? But it mustbe. " She looked at the address, "Miss Fanny Brandeis. " She went to thekitchen for a crowbar, and came back, still in her hat and coat. Shepried open the box expertly, tore away the wrappings, and disclosed agleaming leather-bound set of Balzac, and beneath that, incongruouslyenough, Mark Twain. 

"Why!" exclaimed Fanny, sitting down on the floor rather heavily. Thenher eye fell upon a card tossed aside in the hurry of unpacking. Shepicked it up, read it hastily. "Merry Christmas to the best daughter inthe world. From her Mother. "

Mrs. Brandeis had taken off her wraps and was standing over thesitting-room register, rubbing her numbed hands and smiling a little. 

"Why, Mother!" Fanny scrambled to her feet. "You darling! In all thatrush and work, to take time to think of me! Why--" Her arms were aroundher mother's shoulders. She was pressing her glowing cheek againstthe pale, cold one. And they both wept a little, from emotion, andweariness, and relief, and enjoyed it, as women sometimes do. 

Fanny made her mother stay in bed next morning, a thing that Mrs. Brandeis took to most ungracefully. After the holiday rush and strainshe invariably had a severe cold, the protest of the body she hadover-driven and under-nourished for two or three weeks. As a patient shewas as trying and fractious as a man, tossing about, threatening to getup, demanding hot-water bags, cold compresses, alcohol rubs. She frettedabout the business, and imagined that things were at a stand-stillduring her absence. 

Fanny herself rose early. Her healthy young body, after a night's sleep, was already recuperating from the month's strain. She had planned areal Christmas dinner, to banish the memory of the hasty and unpalatablelunches they had had to gulp during the rush. There was to be a turkey, and Fanny had warned Annie not to touch it. She wanted to stuff it androast it herself. She spent the morning in the kitchen, aside from anoccasional tip-toeing visit to her mother's room. At eleven she foundher mother up, and no amount of coaxing would induce her to go back tobed. She had read the papers and she said she felt rested already. 

The turkey came out a delicate golden-brown, and deliciously crackly. Fanny, looking up over a drumstick, noticed, with a shock, that hermother's eyes looked strangely sunken, and her skin, around the jaws andjust under the chin, where her loose wrapper revealed her throat, wasqueerly yellow and shriveled. She had eaten almost nothing. 

"Mother, you're not eating a thing! You really must eat a little. "

Mrs. Brandeis began a pretense of using knife and fork, but gave it upfinally and sat back, smiling rather wanly. "I guess I'm tireder thanI thought I was, dear. I think I've got a cold coming on, too. I'lllie down again after dinner, and by to-morrow I'll be as chipper as asparrow. The turkey's wonderful, isn't it? I'll have some, cold, forsupper. "

After dinner the house felt very warm and stuffy. It was crisply coldand sunny outdoors. The snow was piled high except on the sidewalks, where it had been neatly shoveled away by the mufflered Winnebago sonsand fathers. There was no man in the Brandeis household, and Aloysiushad been too busy to perform the chores usually considered his workabout the house. The snow lay in drifts upon the sidewalk in front ofthe Brandeis house, except where passing feet had trampled it a bit. 

"I'm going to shovel the walk, " Fanny announced suddenly. "Way aroundto the woodshed. Where are those old mittens of mine? Annie, where's thesnow shovel? Sure I am. Why not?"

She shoveled and scraped and pounded, bending rhythmically to the work, lifting each heaping shovelful with her strong young arms, tossing it tothe side, digging in again, and under. An occasional neighbor passedby, or a friend, and she waved at them, gayly, and tossed back theirbadinage. "Merry Christmas!" she called, again and again, in reply to apassing acquaintance. "Same to you!"

At two o'clock Bella Weinberg telephoned to say that a little party ofthem were going to the river to skate. The ice was wonderful. Oh, comeon! Fanny skated very well. But she hesitated. Mrs. Brandeis, dozing onthe couch, sensed what was going on in her daughter's mind, and rousedherself with something of her old asperity. 

"Don't be foolish, child. Run along! You don't intend to sit here andgaze upon your sleeping beauty of a mother all afternoon, do you? Well, then!"

So Fanny changed her clothes, got her skates, and ran out into the snapand sparkle of the day. The winter darkness had settled down before shereturned, all glowing and rosy, and bright-eyed. Her blood was racingthrough her body. Her lips were parted. The drudgery of the past threeweeks seemed to have been blotted out by this one radiant afternoon. 

The house was dark when she entered. It seemed very quiet, and close, and depressing after the sparkle and rush of the afternoon on the river. "Mother! Mother dear! Still sleeping?"

Mrs. Brandeis stirred, sighed, awoke. Fanny flicked on the light. Hermother was huddled in a kimono on the sofa. She sat up rather dazedlynow, and stared at Fanny. 

"Why--what time is it? What? Have I been sleeping all afternoon? Yourmother's getting old. "

She yawned, and in the midst of it caught her breath with a little cryof pain. 

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Molly Brandeis pressed a hand to her breast. "A stitch, I guess. It'sthis miserable cold coming on. Is there any asperin in the house? I'lldose myself after supper, and take a hot foot bath and go to bed. I'mdead. "

She ate less for supper than she had for dinner. She hardly tasted thecup of tea that Fanny insisted on making for her. She swayed a little asshe sat, and her lids came down over her eyes, flutteringly, as if theweight of them was too great to keep up. At seven she was up-stairs, inbed, sleeping, and breathing heavily. 

At eleven, or thereabouts, Fanny woke up with a start. She sat up inbed, wide-eyed, peering into the darkness and listening. Some one wastalking in a high, queer voice, a voice like her mother's, and yetunlike. She ran, shivering with the cold, into her mother's bedroom. Sheswitched on the light. Mrs. Brandeis was lying on the pillow, her eyesalmost closed, except for a terrifying slit of white that showedbetween the lids. Her head was tossing to and fro on the pillow. She wastalking, sometimes clearly, and sometimes mumblingly. 

"One gross cups and saucers. . . And now what do you think you'd like fora second prize. . . In the basement, Aloysius. . . The trains. . . I'll seethat they get there to-day. . . Yours of the tenth at hand. . . "

"Mother! Mother! Molly dear!" She shook her gently, then almost roughly. The voice ceased. The eyes remained the same. "Oh, God!" She ran to theback of the house. "Annie! Annie, get up! Mother's sick. She's out ofher head. I'm going to 'phone for the doctor. Go in with her. "

She got the doctor at last. She tried to keep her voice under control, and thought, with a certain pride, that she was succeeding. She ranup-stairs again. The voice had begun again, but it seemed thicker now. She got into her clothes, shaking with cold and terror, and yet thinkingvery clearly, as she always did in a crisis. She put clean towels inthe bathroom, pushed the table up to the bed, got a glass of water, straightened the covers, put away the clothes that the tired womanhad left about the room. Doctor Hertz came. He went through the usualpreliminaries, listened, tapped, counted, straightened up at last. 

"Fresh air, " he said. "Cold air. All the windows open. " They rigged upa device of screens and sheets to protect the bed from the drafts. Fannyobeyed orders silently, like a soldier. But her eyes went from the faceon the pillow to that of the man bent over the bed. Something vague, cold, clammy, seemed to be closing itself around her heart. It waslike an icy hand, squeezing there. There had suddenly sprung up thatindefinable atmosphere of the sick-room--a sick-room in which a fight isbeing waged. Bottles on the table, glasses, a spoon, a paper shade overthe electric light globe. 

"What is it?" said Fanny, at last. "Grip?--grip?"

Doctor Hertz hesitated a moment. "Pneumonia. "

Fanny's hands grasped the footboard tightly. "Do you think we'd betterhave a nurse?"

"Yes. "

The nurse seemed to be there, somehow, miraculously. And the morningcame. And in the kitchen Annie went about her work, a little morequietly than usual. And yesterday seemed far away. It was afternoon; itwas twilight. Doctor Hertz had been there for hours. The last time hebrought another doctor with him--Thorn. Mrs. Brandeis was not talkingnow. But she was breathing. It filled the room, that breathing; itfilled the house. Fanny took her mother's hand, that hand with thework-hardened palm and the broken nails. It was very cold. She lookeddown at it. The nails were blue. She began to rub it. She looked up intothe faces of the two men. She picked up the other hand--snatched at it. "Look here!" she said. "Look here!" And then she stood up. The vague, clammy thing that had been wound about her heart suddenly relaxed. Andat that something icy hot rushed all over her body and shook her. Shecame around to the foot of the bed, and gripped it with her two hands. Her chin was thrust forward, and her eyes were bright and staring. Shelooked very much like her mother, just then. It was a fighting face. Adesperate face. 

"Look here, " she began, and was surprised to find that she was onlywhispering. She wet her lips and smiled, and tried again, forming thewords carefully with her lips. "Look here. She's dying--isn't she? Isn'tshe! She's dying, isn't she?"

Doctor Hertz pursed his lips. The nurse came over to her, and put a handon her shoulder. Fanny shook her off. 

"Answer me. I've got a right to know. Look at this!" She reached forwardand picked up that inert, cold, strangely shriveled blue hand again. 

"My dear child--I'm afraid so. "

There came from Fanny's throat a moan that began high, and poignant, andquavering, and ended in a shiver that seemed to die in her heart. Theroom was still again, except for the breathing, and even that was lessraucous. 

Fanny stared at the woman on the bed--at the long, finely-shaped head, with the black hair wadded up so carelessly now; at the long, straight, clever nose; the full, generous mouth. There flooded her whole being agreat, blinding rage. What had she had of life? she demanded fiercely. What? What? Her teeth came together grindingly. She breathed heavilythrough her nostrils, as if she had been running. And suddenly she beganto pray, not with the sounding, unctions thees and thous of the Churchand Bible; not elegantly or eloquently, with well-rounded phrases, asthe righteous pray, but threateningly, hoarsely, as a desperate womanprays. It was not a prayer so much as a cry of defiance---a challenge. 

"Look here, God!" and there was nothing profane as she said it. "Lookhere, God! She's done her part. It's up to You now. Don't You let herdie! Look at her. Look at her!" She choked and shook herself angrily, and went on. "Is that fair? That's a rotten trick to play on a womanthat gave what she gave! What did she ever have of life? Nothing! Thatlittle miserable, dirty store, and those little miserable, dirty people. You give her a chance, d'You hear? You give her a chance, God, orI'll----"

Her voice broke in a thin, cracked quaver. The nurse turned her around, suddenly and sharply, and led her from the room. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

"You can come down now. They're all here, I guess. Doctor Thalmann'sgoing to begin. " Fanny, huddled in a chair in her bedroom, looked upinto the plump, kindly face of the woman who was bending over her. Then she stood up, docilely, and walked toward the stairs with a heavy, stumbling step. 

"I'd put down my veil if I were you, " said the neighbor woman. Andreached up for the black folds that draped Fanny's hat. Fanny's fingersreached for them too, fumblingly. "I'd forgotten about it, " she said. The heavy crape fell about her shoulders, mercifully hiding the swollen, discolored face. She went down the stairs. There was a little stir, a swaying toward her, a sibilant murmur of sympathy from the crowdedsitting-room as she passed through to the parlor where Rabbi Thalmannstood waiting, prayer book in hand, in front of that which was coveredwith flowers. Fanny sat down. A feeling of unreality was strong uponher. Doctor Thalmann cleared his throat and opened the book. 

After all, it was not Rabbi Thalmann's funeral sermon that testified toMrs. Brandeis's standing in the community. It was the character of thegathering that listened to what he had to say. Each had his own opinionof Molly Brandeis, and needed no final eulogy to confirm it. FatherFitzpatrick was there, tall, handsome, ruddy, the two wings of whiteshowing at the temples making him look more than ever like a leadingman. He had been of those who had sat in what he called Mrs. Brandeis'sconfessional, there in the quiet little store. The two had talked ofthings theological and things earthy. His wit, quick though it was, wasno match for hers, but they both had a humor sense and a drama sense, and one day they discovered, queerly enough, that they worshiped thesame God. Any one of these things is basis enough for a friendship. Besides, Molly Brandeis could tell an Irish story inimitably. And youshould have heard Father Fitzpatrick do the one about Ikey and thenickel. No, I think the Catholic priest, seeming to listen with suchrespectful attention, really heard very little of what Rabbi Thalmannhad to say. 

Herman Walthers was there, he of the First National Bank of Winnebago, whose visits had once brought such terror to Molly Brandeis. Augustus G. Gerretson was there, and three of his department heads. Emil Bauer satjust behind him. In a corner was Sadie, the erstwhile coquette, verysubdued now, and months behind the fashions in everything but babyclothes. Hen Cody, who had done all of Molly Brandeis's draying, sat, in unaccustomed black, next to Mayor A. J. Dawes. Temple Emmanu-elwas there, almost a unit. The officers of Temple Emanu-el Ladies' AidSociety sat in a row. They had never honored Molly Brandeis with officein the society--she who could have managed its business, politics andsocial activities with one hand tied behind her, and both her brighteyes shut. In the kitchen and on the porch and in the hallway stoodcertain obscure people--women whose finger tips stuck out of theircotton gloves, and whose skirts dipped ludicrously in the back. OnlyMolly Brandeis could have identified them for you. Mrs. Brosch, thebutter and egg woman, hovered in the dining-room doorway. She hadbrought a pound of butter. It was her contribution to the funeral bakedmeats. She had deposited it furtively on the kitchen table. BirdieCallahan, head waitress at the Haley House, found a seat just next tothe elegant Mrs. Morehouse, who led the Golf Club crowd. A haughty younglady in the dining-room, Birdie Callahan, in her stiffly starched white, but beneath the icy crust of her hauteur was a molten mass of good humorand friendliness. She and Molly Brandeis had had much in common. 

But no one--not even Fanny Brandeis--ever knew who sent the greatcluster of American Beauty roses that had come all the way fromMilwaukee. There had been no card, so who could have guessed that theycame from Blanche Devine. Blanche Devine, of the white powder, and theminks, and the diamonds, and the high-heeled shoes, and the plumes, lived in the house with the closed shutters, near the freight depot. She often came into Brandeis' Bazaar. Molly Brandeis had never allowedSadie, or Pearl, or Fanny or Aloysius to wait on her. She had attendedto her herself. And one day, for some reason, Blanche Devine foundherself telling Molly Brandeis how she had come to be Blanche Devine, and it was a moving and terrible story. And now her cardless flowers, agreat, scarlet sheaf of them, lay next the chaste white roses that hadbeen sent by the Temple Emanu-el Ladies' Aid. Truly, death is a greatleveler. 

In a vague way Fanny seemed to realize that all these people werethere. I think she must even have found a certain grim comfort in theirpresence. Hers had not been the dry-eyed grief of the strong, such asyou read about. She had wept, night and day, hopelessly, inconsolably, torturing herself with remorseful questions. If she had not goneskating, might she not have seen how ill her mother was? Why hadn'tshe insisted on the doctor when her mother refused to eat the Christmasdinner? Blind and selfish, she told herself; blind and selfish. Her facewas swollen and distorted now, and she was thankful for the black veilthat shielded her. Winnebago was scandalized to see that she wore noother black. Mrs. Brandeis had never wanted Fanny to wear it; she hadn'tenough color, she said. So now she was dressed in her winter suit ofblue, and her hat with the pert blue quill. And the little rabbi's voicewent on and on, and Fanny knew that it could not be true. What had allthis dust-to-dust talk to do with any one as vital, and electric, andconstructive as Molly Brandeis. In the midst of the service there was asharp cry, and a little stir, and the sound of stifled sobbing. It wasAloysius the merry, Aloysius the faithful, whose Irish heart was quitebroken. Fanny ground her teeth together in an effort at self-control. 

And so to the end, and out past the little hushed, respectful groupon the porch, to the Jewish cemetery on the state road. The snow ofChristmas week was quite virgin there, except for that one spot wherethe sexton and his men had been at work. Then back at a smart jog trotthrough the early dusk of the winter afternoon, the carriage wheelscreaking upon the hard, dry snow. And Fanny Brandeis said to herself(she must have been a little light-headed from hunger and weeping):

"Now I'll know whether it's true or not. When I go into the house. Ifshe's there she'll say, `Well Fanchen! Hungry? Oh, but my little girl'shands are cold! Come here to the register and warm them. ' O God, let herbe there! Let her be there!"

But she wasn't. The house had been set to rights by brisk andunaccustomed hands. There was a bustle and stir in the dining-room, andfrom the kitchen came the appetizing odors of cooking food. Fanny wentup to a chair that was out of its place, and shoved it back against thewall where it belonged. She straightened a rug, carried the waste basketfrom the desk to the spot near the living-room table where it had alwaysserved to hide the shabby, worn place in the rug. Fanny went up-stairs, past The Room that was once more just a comfortable, old fashionedbedroom, instead of a mysterious and awful chamber; bathed her face, tidied her hair, came down-stairs again, ate and drank things hot andrevivifying. The house was full of kindly women. 

Fanny found herself clinging to them--clinging desperately to theseample, broad-bosomed, soothing women whom she had scarcely known before. They were always there, those women, and their husbands too; kindly, awkward men, who patted her shoulder, and who spoke of Molly Brandeiswith that sincerity of admiration such as men usually give only to men. People were constantly popping in at the back door with napkin-coveredtrays, and dishes and baskets. A wonderful and beautiful thing, thathomely small-town sympathy that knows the value of physical comfort intime of spiritual anguish. 

Two days after the funeral Fanny Brandeis went back to the store, muchas her mother had done many years before, after her husband's death. Shelooked about at the bright, well-stocked shelves and tables with a neweye--a speculative eye. The Christmas season was over. January was thetime for inventory and for replenishment. Mrs. Brandeis had alwaysgone to Chicago the second week in January for the spring stock. Butsomething was forming in Fanny Brandeis's mind--a resolve that grew sorapidly as to take her breath away. Her brain felt strangely clear andkeen after the crashing storm of grief that had shaken her during thepast week. 

"What are you going to do now?" people had asked her, curious andinterested. "Is Theodore coming back?"

"I don't know--yet. " In answer to the first. And, "No. Why should he? Hehas his work. "

"But he could be of such help to you. "

"I'll help myself, " said Fanny Brandeis, and smiled a curious smilethat had in it more of bitterness and less of mirth than any smile has aright to have. 

Mrs. Brandeis had left a will, far-sighted business woman that she was. It was a terse, clear-headed document, that gave "to Fanny Brandeis, mydaughter, " the six-thousand-dollar insurance, the stock, good-will andfixtures of Brandeis' Bazaar, the house furnishings, the few pieces ofjewelry in their old-fashioned setting. To Theodore was left the sum offifteen hundred dollars. He had received his share in the years of hismusical education. 

Fanny Brandeis did not go to Chicago that January. She took inventoryof Brandeis' Bazaar, carefully and minutely. And then, just as carefullyand minutely she took stock of Fanny Brandeis. There was somethingrelentless and terrible in the way she went about this self-analysis. She walked a great deal that winter, often out through the drifts to thelittle cemetery. As she walked her mind was working, working. She heldlong mental conversations with herself during these walks, and once shewas rather frightened to find herself talking aloud. She wondered if shehad done that before. And a plan was maturing in her brain, while thefight went on within herself, thus:

"You'll never do it, Fanny. You're not built that way. "

"Oh, won't I! Watch me! Give me time. "

"You'll think of what your mother would have done under the sameconditions, and you'll do that thing. "

"I won't. Not unless it's the long-headed thing to do. I'm through beingsentimental and unselfish. What did it bring her? Nothing!"

The weeks went by. Fanny worked hard in the store, and bought little. February came, and with the spring her months of private thinking borefruit. There came to Fanny Brandeis a great resolve. She would putherself in a high place. Every talent she possessed, every advantage, every scrap of knowledge, every bit of experience, would be used towardthat end. She would make something of herself. It was a worldly, selfishresolve, born of a bitter sorrow, and ambition, and resentment. She madeup her mind that she would admit no handicaps. Race, religion, training, natural impulses--she would discard them all if they stood in her way. She would leave Winnebago behind. At best, if she stayed there, shecould never accomplish more than to make her business a more thanordinarily successful small-town store. And she would be--nobody. No, she had had enough of that. She would crush and destroy the little girlwho had fasted on that Day of Atonement; the more mature girl who hadwritten the thesis about the paper mill rag-room; the young woman whohad drudged in the store on Elm Street. In her place she would mold ahard, keen-eyed, resolute woman, whose godhead was to be success, andto whom success would mean money and position. She had not a head formathematics, but out of the puzzling problems and syllogisms in geometryshe had retained in her memory this one immovable truth:

A straight line is the shortest distance between two points. 

With her mental eye she marked her two points, and then, starting fromthe first, made directly for the second. But she forgot to reckon withthe law of tangents. She forgot, too, how paradoxical a creaturewas this Fanny Brandeis whose eyes filled with tears at sight of aparade--just the sheer drama of it--were the marchers G. A. R. Veterans, school children in white, soldiers, Foresters, political marching clubs;and whose eyes burned dry and bright as she stood over the white moundin the cemetery on the state road. Generous, spontaneous, impulsive, warm-hearted, she would be cold, calculating, deliberate, she toldherself. 

Thousands of years of persecution behind her made her quick toappreciate suffering in others, and gave her an innate sense offellowship with the downtrodden. She resolved to use that sense as asearchlight aiding her to see and overcome obstacles. She told herselfthat she was done with maudlin sentimentality. On the rare occasionswhen she had accompanied her mother to Chicago, the two women had founddelight in wandering about the city's foreign quarters. When othersmall-town women buyers snatched occasional moments of leisure for thetheater or personal shopping, these two had spent hours in the ghettoaround Jefferson and Taylor, and Fourteenth Streets. Something inthe sight of these people--alien, hopeful, emotional, oftengrotesque--thrilled and interested both the women. And at sight of anill-clad Italian, with his slovenly, wrinkled old-young wife, turningthe handle of his grind organ whilst both pairs of eyes searched windowsand porches and doorsteps with a hopeless sort of hopefulness, she losther head entirely and emptied her limp pocketbook of dimes, and nickels, and pennies. Incidentally it might be stated that she loved the cheapand florid music of the hand organ itself. 

It was rumored that Brandeis' Bazaar was for sale. In the springGerretson's offered Fanny the position of buyer and head of the china, glassware, and kitchenware sections. Gerretson's showed an imposingblock of gleaming plate-glass front now, and drew custom from a dozenthrifty little towns throughout the Fox River Valley. Fanny refused theoffer. In March she sold outright the stock, good-will, and fixtures ofBrandeis' Bazaar. The purchaser was a thrifty, farsighted travelingman who had wearied of the road and wanted to settle down. She sold thehousehold goods too--those intimate, personal pieces of wood and cloththat had become, somehow, part of her life. She had grown up with them. She knew the history of every nick, every scratch and worn spot. Hermother lived again in every piece. The old couch went off in a farmer'swagon. Fanny turned away when they joggled it down the front steps andinto the rude vehicle. It was like another funeral. She was furious tofind herself weeping again. She promised herself punishment for that. 

Up in her bedroom she opened the bottom drawer of her bureau. Thatbureau and its history and the history of every piece of furniture inthe room bore mute testimony to the character of its occupant; to herprotest against things as she found them, and her determination tomake them over to suit her. She had spent innumerable Sunday morningswielding the magic paint brush that had transformed the bedroom fromdingy oak to gleaming cream enamel. She sat down on the floor now, before the bureau, and opened the bottom drawer. 

In a corner at the back, under the neat pile of garments, was atightly-rolled bundle of cloth. Fanny reached for it, took it out, andheld it in her hands a moment. Then she unrolled it slowly, and thebundle revealed itself to be a faded, stained, voluminous gingham apron, blue and white. It was the kind of apron women don when they performsome very special household ritual--baking, preserving, house cleaning. It crossed over the shoulders with straps, and its generous fullness ranall the way around the waist. It was discolored in many places with thebrown and reddish stains of fruit juices. It had been Molly Brandeis'canning apron. Fanny had come upon it hanging on a hook behind thekitchen door, after that week in December. And at sight of it all herfortitude and forced calm had fled. She had spread her arms over thelimp, mute, yet speaking thing dangling there, and had wept so wildlyand uncontrollably as to alarm even herself. 

Nothing in connection with her mother's death had power to call up suchpoignant memories as did this homely, intimate garment. She saw againthe steamy kitchen, deliciously scented with the perfume of cookingfruit, or the tantalizing, mouth-watering spiciness of vinegar andpickles. On the stove the big dishpan, in which the jelly glasses andfruit jars, with their tops and rubbers, bobbed about in hot water. In the great granite kettle simmered the cooking fruit Molly Brandeis, enveloped in the familiar blue-and-white apron, stood over it, like apriestess, stirring, stirring, slowly, rhythmically. Her face would behot and moist with the steam, and very tired too, for she often camehome from the store utterly weary, to stand over the kettle until tenor eleven o'clock. But the pride in it as she counted the golden or rubytinted tumblers gleaming in orderly rows as they cooled on the kitchentable!

"Fifteen glasses of grape jell, Fan! And I didn't mix a bit of applewith it. I didn't think I'd get more than ten. And nine of the quincepreserve. That makes--let me see--eighty-three, ninety-eight--onehundred and seven altogether. "

"We'll never eat it, Mother. "

"You said that last year, and by April my preserve cupboard looked likeOld Mother Hubbard's. "

But then, Mrs. Brandeis was famous for her preserves, as FatherFitzpatrick, and Aloysius, and Doctor Thalmann, and a dozen others couldtestify. After the strain and flurry of a busy day at the store therewas something about this homely household rite that brought a certainsense of rest and peace to Molly Brandeis. 

All this moved through Fanny Brandeis's mind as she sat with thecrumpled apron in her lap, her eyes swimming with hot tears. The verystains that discolored it, the faded blue of the front breadth, thefrayed buttonhole, the little scorched place where she had burned a holewhen trying unwisely to lift a steaming kettle from the stove with theapron's corner, spoke to her with eloquent lips. That apron had becomea vice with Fanny. She brooded over it as a mother broods over theshapeless, scuffled bit of leather that was a baby's shoe; as a woman, widowed, clings to a shabby, frayed old smoking jacket. More than onceshe had cried herself to sleep with the apron clasped tightly in herarms. 

She got up from the floor now, with the apron in her hands, and wentdown the stairs, opened the door that led to the cellar, walked heavilydown those steps and over to the furnace. She flung open the furnacedoor. Red and purple the coal bed gleamed, with little white flamesprites dancing over it. Fanny stared at it a moment, fascinated. Herface was set, her eyes brilliant. Suddenly she flung the tightly-rolledapron into the heart of the gleaming mass. She shut her eyes then. The fire seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Then, with a gasp, itsprang upon its food. The bundle stiffened, writhed, crumpled, sank, laya blackened heap, was dissolved. The fire bed glowed red and purple asbefore, except for a dark spot in its heart. Fanny shivered a little. She shut the furnace door and went up-stairs again. 

"Smells like something burning--cloth, or something, " called Annie, fromthe kitchen. 

"It's only an old apron that was cluttering up my--my bureau drawer. "

Thus she successfully demonstrated the first lesson in the cruel andrigid course of mental training she had mapped out for herself. 

Leaving Winnebago was not easy. There is something about a small townthat holds you. Your life is so intimately interwoven with that of yourneighbor. Existence is so safe, so sane, so sure. Fanny knew that whenshe turned the corner of Elm Street every third person she met wouldspeak to her. Life was made up of minute details, too trivial for thenotice of the hurrying city crowds. You knew when Milly Glaenzer changedthe baby buggy for a go-cart. The youngest Hupp boy--Sammy--who wasgraduated from High School in June, is driving A. J. Dawes's automobilenow. My goodness, how time flies! Doeppler's grocery has put inplate-glass windows, and they're getting out-of-season vegetables everyday now from Milwaukee. As you pass you get the coral glow of tomatoes, and the tender green of lettuces. And that vivid green? Fresh youngpeas! And in February. Well! They've torn down the old yellow brickNational Bank, and in its place a chaste Greek Temple of a buildinglooks rather contemptuously down its classic columns upon the farmer'swagons drawn up along the curb. If Fanny Brandeis' sense of proportionhad not been out of plumb she might have realized that, to Winnebago, the new First National Bank building was as significant and epochal ashad been the Woolworth Building to New York. 

The very intimacy of these details, Fanny argued, was another reason forleaving Winnebago. They were like detaining fingers that grasped at yourskirts, impeding your progress. 

She had early set about pulling every wire within her reach that mightlead, directly or indirectly, to the furtherance of her ambition. Shegot two offers from Milwaukee retail stores. She did not consider themfor a moment. Even a Chicago department store of the second grade (oneof those on the wrong side of State Street) did not tempt her. She knewher value. She could afford to wait. There was money enough on which tolive comfortably until the right chance presented itself. She knew everyitem of her equipment, and she conned them to herself greedily:Definite charm of manner; the thing that is called magnetism; brains;imagination; driving force; health; youth; and, most precious of all, that which money could not buy, nor education provide--experience. Experience, a priceless weapon, that is beaten into shape only bymuch contact with men and women, and that is sharpened by much rubbingagainst the rough edges of this world. 

In April her chance came to her; came in that accidental, haphazard waythat momentous happenings have. She met on Elm Street a traveling manfrom whom Molly Brandeis had bought for years. He dropped both samplecases and shook hands with Fanny, eying her expertly and approvingly, and yet without insolence. He was a wise, road-weary, skillful memberof his fraternity, grown gray in years of service, and a little bitter. Though perhaps that was due partly to traveling man's dyspepsia, broughton by years of small-town hotel food. 

"So you've sold out. "

"Yes. Over a month ago. "

"H'm. That was a nice little business you had there. Your ma built it upherself. There was a woman! Gosh! Discounted her bills, even during thepanic. "

Fanny smiled a reflective little smile. "That line is a completecharacterization of my mother. Her life was a series of panics. But shenever lost her head. And she always discounted. "

He held out his hand. "Well, glad I met you. " He picked up his samplecases. "You leaving Winnebago?"

"Yes. "

"Going to the city, I suppose. Well you're a smart girl. And yourmother's daughter. I guess you'll get along all right. What house areyou going with?"

"I don't know. I'm waiting for the right chance. It's all in startingright. I'm not going to hurry. "

He put down his cases again, and his eyes grew keen and kindly. Hegesticulated with one broad forefinger. "Listen, m' girl. I'm what theycall an old-timer. They want these high-power, eight-cylinder kids onthe road these days, and it's all we can do to keep up. But I've gotsomething they haven't got--yet. I never read anybody on the Psychologyof Business, but I know human nature all the way from Elm Street, Winnebago, to Fifth Avenue, New York. "

"I'm sure you do, " said Fanny politely, and took a little step forward, as though to end the conversation. 

"Now wait a minute. They say the way to learn is to make mistakes. Ifthat's true, I'm at the head of the class. I've made 'em all. Now getthis. You start out and specialize. Specialize! Tie to one thing, andmake yourself an expert in it. But first be sure it's the right thing. "

"But how is one to be sure?"

"By squinting up your eyes so you can see ten years ahead. If it looksgood to you at that distance--better, in fact, than it does closeby--then it's right. I suppose that's what they call having imagination. I never had any. That's why I'm still selling goods on the road. To lookat you I'd say you had too much. Maybe I'm wrong. But I never yet sawa woman with a mouth like yours who was cut out for business--unlessit was your mother--And her eyes were different. Let's see, what was Isaying?"

"Specialize. "

"Oh, yes. And that reminds me. Bunch of fellows in the smoker last nighttalking about Haynes-Cooper. Your mother hated 'em like poison, theway every small-town merchant hates the mail-order houses. But I hearthey've got an infants' wear department that's just going to grass forlack of a proper head. You're only a kid. And they have done you dirtall these years, of course. But if you could sort of horn in there--why, say, there's no limit to the distance you could go. No limit! With yourbrains and experience. "

That had been the beginning. From then on the thing had moved forwardwith a certain inevitableness. There was something about the vastness ofthe thing that appealed to Fanny. Here was an organization whose greatarms embraced the world. Haynes-Cooper, giant among mail-order houses, was said to eat a small-town merchant every morning for breakfast. 

"There's a Haynes-Cooper catalogue in every farmer's kitchen, " MollyBrandeis used to say. "The Bible's in the parlor, but they keep the H. C. Book in the room where they live. "

That she was about to affiliate herself with this house appealed toFanny Brandeis's sense of comedy. She had heard her mother presentingher arguments to the stubborn farmer folk who insisted on ordering theirstove, or dinner set, or plow, or kitchen goods from the fascinatingcatalogue. "I honestly think it's just the craving for excitement thatmakes them do it, " she often said. "They want the thrill they getwhen they receive a box from Chicago, and open it, and take off thewrappings, and dig out the thing they ordered from a picture, notknowing whether it will be right or wrong. "

Her arguments usually left the farmer unmoved. He would drive into town, mail his painfully written letter and order at the post-office, disposeof his load of apples, or butter, or cheese, or vegetables, and drivecheerfully back again, his empty wagon bumping and rattling down the oldcorduroy road. Express, breakage, risk, loyalty to his own region--anthese arguments left him cold. 

In May, after much manipulation, correspondence, two interviews, came adefinite offer from the Haynes-Cooper Company. It was much less than theState Street store had offered, and there was something tentative aboutthe whole agreement. Haynes-Cooper proffered little and demanded much, as is the way of the rich and mighty. But Fanny remembered the ten-yearviewpoint that the weary-wise old traveling man had spoken about. Shetook their offer. She was to go to Chicago almost at once, to begin workJune first. 

Two conversations that took place before she left are perhaps worthrecording. One was with Father Fitzpatrick of St. Ignatius CatholicChurch. The other with Rabbi Emil Thalmann of Temple Emanu-el. 

An impulse brought her into Father Fitzpatrick's study. It was a weekbefore her departure. She was tired. There had been much last signing ofpapers, nailing of boxes, strapping of trunks. When things began to cometoo thick and fast for her she put on her hat and went for a walk at theclose of the May day. May, in Wisconsin, is a thing all fragrant, andgold, and blue; and white with cherry blossoms; and pink with appleblossoms; and tremulous with budding things. 

Fanny struck out westward through the neat streets of the little town, and found herself on the bridge over the ravine in which she had playedwhen a little girl--the ravine that her childish imagination hadpeopled with such pageantry of redskin, and priests, and voyageurs, and cavaliers. She leaned over the iron railing and looked down. Where grass, and brook, and wild flower had been there now oozed greateruptions of ash heaps, tin cans, broken bottles, mounds of dirt. Winnebago's growing pains had begun. Fanny turned away with a littlesick feeling. She went on across the bridge past the Catholic church. Just next the church was the parish house where Father Fitzpatricklived. It always looked as if it had been scrubbed, inside and out, witha scouring brick. Its windows were a reproach and a challenge to everyhousekeeper in Winnebago. 

Fanny wanted to talk to somebody about that ravine. She was full of it. Father Fitzpatrick's study over-looked it. Besides, she wanted tosee him before she left Winnebago. A picture came to her mind of hishandsome, ruddy face, twinkling with humor as she had last seen it whenhe had dropped in at Brandeis' Bazaar for a chat with her mother. Sheturned in at the gate and ran up the immaculate, gray-painted steps, that always gleamed as though still wet with the paint brush. 

"I shouldn't wonder if that housekeeper of his comes out with a pailof paint and does 'em every morning before breakfast, " Fanny said toherself as she rang the bell. 

Usually it was that sparse and spectacled person herself who opened theparish house door, but to-day Fanny's ring was answered by Father Casey, parish assistant. A sour-faced and suspicious young man, Father Casey, thick-spectacled, and pointed of nose. Nothing of the jolly priest abouthim. He was new to the town, but he recognized Fanny and surveyed herdarkly. 

"Father Fitzpatrick in? I'm Fanny Brandeis. "

"The reverend father is busy, " and the glass door began to close. 

"Who is it?" boomed a voice from within. "Who're you turning away, Casey?"

"A woman, not a parishioner. " The door was almost shut now. 

Footsteps down the hall. "Good! Let her in. " The door opened ever soreluctantly. Father Fitzpatrick loomed up beside his puny assistant, dwarfing him. He looked sharply at the figure on the porch. "For thelove of--! Casey, you're a fool! How you ever got beyond being analtar-boy is more than I can see. Come in, child. Come in! The man's cutout for a jailor, not a priest. "

Fanny's two hands were caught in one of his big ones, and she was leddown the hall to the study. It was the room of a scholar and a man, andthe one spot in the house that defied the housekeeper's weapons of broomand duster. A comfortable and disreputable room, full of books, andfishing tackle, and chairs with sagging springs, and a sofa that wasdented with friendly hollows. Pipes on the disorderly desk. A copyof "Mr. Dooley" spread face down on what appeared to be next Sunday'ssermon, rough-drafted. 

"I just wanted to talk to you. " Fanny drifted to the shelves, book-loverthat she was, and ran a finger over a half-dozen titles. "Your assistantwas justified, really, in closing the door on me. But I'm glad yourescued me. " She came over to him and stood looking up at him. He seemedto loom up endlessly, though hers was a medium height. "I think I reallywanted to talk to you about that ravine, though I came to say good-by. "

"Sit down, child, sit down!" He creaked into his greatleather-upholstered desk chair, himself. "If you had left without seeingme I'd have excommunicated Casey. Between you and me the man's mad. Hisjob ought to be duenna to a Spanish maiden, not assistant to a priestwith a leaning toward the flesh. "

Now, Father Fitzpatrick talked with a--no, you couldn't call it abrogue. It was nothing so gross as that. One does not speak of theflavor of a rare wine; one calls attention to its bouquet. A subtle, teasing, elusive something that just tickles the senses insteadof punching them in the ribs. So his speech was permeated with awill-o'-the-wisp, a tingling richness that evaded definition. You willhave to imagine it. There shall be no vain attempt to set it down. Besides, you always skip dialect. 

"So you're going away. I'd heard. Where to?"

"Chicago, Haynes-Cooper. It's a wonderful chance. I don't see yet howI got it. There's only one other woman on their business staff--I meanworking actually in an executive way in the buying and selling end ofthe business. Of course there are thousands doing clerical work, andthat kind of thing. Have you ever been through the plant? It's--it'sincredible. "

Father Fitzpatrick drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair, andlooked at Fanny, his handsome eyes half shut. 

"So it's going to be business, h'm? Well, I suppose it's only natural. Your mother and I used to talk about you often. I don't know if you andshe ever spoke seriously of this little trick of drawing, or cartooning, or whatever it is you have. She used to think about it. She said once tome, that it looked to her more than just a knack. An authentic gift ofcaricature, she called it--if it could only be developed. But of courseTheodore took everything. That worried her. "

"Oh, nonsense! That! I just amuse myself with it. "

"Yes. But what amuses you might amuse other people. There's all too fewamusing things in the world. Your mother was a smart woman, Fanny. Thesmartest I ever knew. "

"There's no money in it, even if I were to get on with it. What couldI do with it? Who ever heard of a woman cartoonist! And I couldn'tillustrate. Those pink cheesecloth pictures the magazines use. I want toearn money. Lots of it. And now. "

She got up and went to the window, and stood looking down the steepgreen slope of the ravine that lay, a natural amphitheater, just below. 

"Money, h'm?" mused Father Fitzpatrick. "Well, it's popular and handy. And you look to me like the kind of girl who'd get it, once you startedout for it. I've never had much myself. They say it has a way of turningto dust and ashes in the mouth, once you get a good, satisfying bite ofit. But that's only talk, I suppose. "

Fanny laughed a little, still looking down at the ravine. "I'm fairlyaccustomed to dust and ashes by this time. It won't be a new taste tome. " She whirled around suddenly. "And speaking of dust and ashes, isn'tthis a shame? A crime? Why doesn't somebody stop it? Why don't you stopit?" She pointed to the desecrated ravine below. Her eyes were blazing, her face all animation. 

Father Fitzpatrick came over and stood beside her. His face was sad. "It's a--" He stopped abruptly, and looked down into her glowing face. He cleared his throat. "It's a perfectly natural state of affairs, " hesaid smoothly. "Winnebago's growing. Especially over there on the westside, since the new mill went up, and they've extended the street carline. They need the land to build on. It's business. And money. "

"Business! It's a crime! It's wanton! Those ravines are the mostbeautiful natural spots in Wisconsin. Why, they're history, and romance, and beauty!"

"So that's the way you feel about it?"

"Of course. Don't you? Can't you stop it? Petitions--"

"Certainly I feel it's an outrage. But I'm just a poor fool of a priest, and sentimental, with no head for business. Now you're a business woman, and different. "

"I! You're joking. "

"Say, listen, m' girl. The world's made up of just two things: ravinesand dump heaps. And the dumpers are forever edging up, and squeedgingup, and trying to grab the ravines and spoil 'em, when nobody's looking. You've made your choice, and allied yourself with the dump heaps. Whatright have you to cry out against the desecration of the ravines?"

"The right that every one has that loves them. "

"Child, you're going to get so used to seeing your ravines choked up atHaynes-Cooper that after a while you'll prefer 'em that way. "

Fanny turned on him passionately. "I won't! And if I do, perhaps it'sjust as well. There's such a thing as too much ravine. What do you wantme to do? Stay here, and grub away, and become a crabbed old maid likeIrma Klein, thankful to be taken around by the married crowd, joiningthe Aid Society and going to the card parties on Sunday nights? Or Icould marry a traveling man, perhaps, or Lee Kohn of the Golden Eagle. I'm just like any other ambitious woman with brains--"

"No you're not. You're different. And I'll tell you why. You're a Jew. "

"Yes, I've got that handicap. "

"That isn't a handicap, Fanny. It's an asset. Outwardly you're likeany other girl of your age. Inwardly you've been molded by occupation, training, religion, history, temperament, race, into something--"

"Ethnologists have proved that there is no such thing as a Jewish race, "she interrupted pertly. 

"H'm. Maybe. I don't know what you'd call it, then. You can't take apeople and persecute them for thousands of years, hounding them fromplace to place, herding them in dark and filthy streets, without leavingsome sort of brand on them--a mark that differentiates. Sometimes itdoesn't show outwardly. But it's there, inside. You know, Fanny, howit's always been said that no artist can became a genius until he hassuffered. You've suffered, you Jews, for centuries and centuries, untilyou're all artists--quick to see drama because you've lived in it, emotional, oversensitive, cringing, or swaggering, high-strung, demonstrative, affectionate, generous. 

"Maybe they're right. Perhaps it isn't a race. But what do you call thething, then, that made you draw me as you did that morning when you cameto ten o'clock mass and did a caricature of me in the pulpit. You showedup something that I've been trying to hide for twenty years, till I'dfooled everybody, including myself. My church is always packed. Nobodyelse there ever saw it. I'll tell you, Fanny, what I've always said: theIrish would be the greatest people in the world--if it weren't for theJews. "

They laughed together at that, and the tension was relieved. 

"Well, anyway, " said Fanny, and patted his great arm, "I'd rather talkto you than to any man in the world. "

"I hope you won't be able to say that a year from now, dear girl. "

And so they parted. He took her to the door himself, and watched herslim figure down the street and across the ravine bridge, and thoughtshe walked very much like her mother, shoulders squared, chin high, hipsfirm. He went back into the house, after surveying the sunset largely, and encountered the dour Casey in the hall. 

"I'll type your sermon now, sir--if it's done. "

"It isn't done, Casey. And you know it. Oh, Casey, "--(I wish yourimagination would supply that brogue, because it was such a deliciouslysoft and racy thing)--"Oh, Casey, Casey! you're a better priest than Iam--but a poorer man. "

Fanny was to leave Winnebago the following Saturday. She had sold thelast of the household furniture, and had taken a room at the HaleyHouse. She felt very old and experienced--and sad. That, she toldherself, was only natural. Leaving things to which one is accustomed isalways hard. Queerly enough, it was her good-by to Aloysius that mostunnerved her. Aloysius had been taken on at Gerretson's, and the dignityof his new position sat heavily upon him. You should have seen his ties. Fanny sought him out at Gerretson's. 

"It's flure-manager of the basement I am, " he said, and struck anelegant attitude against the case of misses'-ready-to-wear coats. "Andwhen you come back to Winnebago, Miss Fanny, --and the saints send itbe soon--I'll bet ye'll see me on th' first flure, keepin' a stern butkindly eye on the swellest trade in town. Ev'ry last thing I know Ilearned off yur poor ma. "

"I hope it will serve you here, Aloysius. "

"Sarve me!" He bent closer. "Meanin' no offense, Miss Fanny; but say, listen: Oncet ye get a Yiddish business education into an Irish head, and there's no limit to the length ye can go. If I ain't a dry-goodsking be th' time I'm thirty I hope a packin' case'll fall on me. "

The sight of Aloysius seemed to recall so vividly all that was happy andall that was hateful about Brandeis' Bazaar; all the bravery and pluck, and resourcefulness of the bright-eyed woman he had admiringly calledhis boss, that Fanny found her self-control slipping. She put out herhand rather blindly to meet his great red paw (a dressy striped cuffseemed to make it all the redder), murmured a word of thanks in returnfor his fervent good wishes, and fled up the basement stairs. 

On Friday night (she was to leave next day) she went to the temple. Theevening service began at seven. At half past six Fanny had finished herearly supper. She would drop in at Doctor Thalmann's house and walk withhim to temple, if he had not already gone. 

"Nein, der Herr Rabbi ist noch hier--sure, " the maid said in answerto Fanny's question. The Thalmann's had a German maid--one Minna--whobullied the invalid Mrs. Thalmann, was famous for her cookies withwalnuts on the top, and who made life exceedingly difficult forunlinguistic callers. 

Rabbi Thalmann was up in his study. Fanny ran lightly up the stairs. 

"Who is it, Emil? That Minna! Next Monday her week is up. She goes. "

"It's I, Mrs. Thalmann. Fanny Brandeis. "

"Na, Fanny! Now what do you think!"

In the brightly-lighted doorway of his little study appeared RabbiThalmann, on one foot a comfortable old romeo, on the other a streetshoe. He held out both hands. "Only at supper we talked about you. Isn'tthat so, Harriet?" He called into the darkened room. 

"I came to say good-by. And I thought we might walk to temple together. How's Mrs. Thalmann tonight?"

The little rabbi shook his head darkly, and waved a dismal hand. Butthat was for Fanny alone. What he said was: "She's really splendidto-day. A little tired, perhaps; but what is that?"

"Emil!" from the darkened bedroom. "How can you say that? But how! WhatI have suffered to-day, only! Torture! And because I say nothing I'm notsick. "

"Go in, " said Rabbi Thalmann. 

So Fanny went in to the woman lying, yellow-faced, on the pillows of thedim old-fashioned bedroom with its walnut furniture, and its red plushmantel drape. Mrs. Thalmann held out a hand. Fanny took it in hers, andperched herself on the edge of the bed. She patted the dry, devitalizedhand, and pressed it in her own strong, electric grip. Mrs. Thalmannraised her head from the pillow. 

"Tell me, did she have her white apron on?"

"White apron?"

"Minna, the girl. "

"Oh!" Fanny's mind jerked back to the gingham-covered figure that hadopened the door for her. "Yes, " she lied, "a white one--with crochetaround the bottom. Quite grand. "

Mrs. Thalmann sank back on the pillow with a satisfied sigh. "A wonder. "She shook her head. "What that girl wastes alone, when I am helplesshere. "

Rabbi Thalmann came into the room, both feet booted now, and placed hisslippers neatly, toes out, under the bed. "Ach, Harriet, the girl is allright. You imagine. Come, Fanny. " He took a great, fat watch out of hispocket. "It is time to go. "

Mrs. Thalmann laid a detaining hand on Fanny's arm. "You will come oftenback here to Winnebago?"

"I'm afraid not. Once a year, perhaps, to visit my graves. "

The sick eyes regarded the fresh young face. "Your mother, Fanny, we didn't understand her so well, here in Winnebago, among us Jewishladies. She was different. "

Fanny's face hardened. She stood up. "Yes, she was different. "

"She comes often into my mind now, when I am here alone, with only thefour walls. We were aber dumm, we women--but how dumm! She was too smartfor us, your mother. Too smart. Und eine sehr brave frau. "

And suddenly Fanny, she who had resolved to set her face against allemotion, and all sentiment, found herself with her glowing cheek pressedagainst the withered one, and it was the weak old hand that patted hernow. So she lay for a moment, silent. Then she got up, straightened herhat, smiled. 

"Auf Wiedersehen, " she said in her best German. "Und gute Besserung. "

But the rabbi's wife shook her head. "Good-by. "

From the hall below Doctor Thalmann called to her. "Come, child, come!"Then, "Ach, the light in my study! I forgot to turn it out, Fanny, be sogood, yes?"

Fanny entered the bright little room, reached up to turn off the light, and paused a moment to glance about her. It was an ugly, comfortable, old-fashioned room that had never progressed beyond the what-not period. Fanny's eye was caught by certain framed pictures on the walls. They were photographs of Rabbi Thalmann's confirmation classes. Spindling-legged little boys in the splendor of patent-leather buttonedshoes, stiff white shirts, black broadcloth suits with satin lapels;self-conscious and awkward little girls--these in the minority--in whitedresses and stiff white hair bows. In the center of each group sat thelittle rabbi, very proud and alert. Fanny was not among these. She hadnever formally taken the vows of her creed. As she turned down the lightnow, and found her way down the stairs, she told herself that she wasglad this was so. 

It was a matter of only four blocks to the temple. But they were late, and so they hurried, and there was little conversation. Fanny's arm wastucked comfortably in his. It felt, somehow, startlingly thin, that arm. And as they hurried along there was a jerky feebleness about his gait. It was with difficulty that Fanny restrained herself from supporting himwhen they came to a rough bit of walk or a sudden step. Something finein her prompted her not to. But the alert mind in that old frame sensedwhat was going on in her thoughts. 

"He's getting feeble, the old rabbi, h'm?"

"Not a bit of it. I've got all I can do to keep up with you. You setsuch a pace. "

"I know. I know. They are not all so kind, Fanny. They are tooprosperous, this congregation of mine. And some day, `Off with hishead!' And in my place there will step a young man, with eye-glassesinstead of spectacles. They are tired of hearing about the prophets. Texts from the Bible have gone out of fashion. You think I do not seethem giggling, h'm? The young people. And the whispering in the choirloft. And the buzz when I get up from my chair after the second hymn. `Is he going to have a sermon? Is he? Sure enough!' Na, he will makethem sit up, my successor. Sex sermons! Political lectures. That's it. Lectures. " They were turning in at the temple now. "The race is to theyoung, Fanny. To the young. And I am old. "

She squeezed the frail old arm in hers. "My dear!" she said. "My dear!"A second breaking of her new resolutions. 

One by one, two by two, they straggled in for the Friday eveningservice, these placid, prosperous people, not unkind, but careless, perhaps, in their prosperity. 

"He's worth any ten of them, " Fanny said hotly to herself, as she satin her pew that, after to-morrow, would no longer be hers. "The dearold thing. `Sex sermons. ' And the race is to the young. How right he is. Well, no one can say I'm not getting an early start. "

The choir had begun the first hymn when there came down the aisle astranger. There was a little stir among the congregation. Visitors wererare. He was dark and very slim--with the slimness of steel wire. He passed down the aisle rather uncertainly. A traveling man, Fannythought, dropped in, as sometimes they did, to say Kaddish for adeparted father or mother. Then she changed her mind. Her quickeye noted his walk; a peculiar walk, with a spring in it. Only oneunfamiliar with cement pavements could walk like that. The Indians musthave had that same light, muscular step. He chose an empty pew halfwaydown the aisle and stumbled into it rather awkwardly. Fanny thought hewas unnecessarily ugly, even for a man. Then he looked up, and noddedand smiled at Lee Kohn, across the aisle. His teeth were very white, and the smile was singularly sweet. Fanny changed her mind again. Notso bad-looking, after all. Different, anyway. And then--why, of course!Little Clarence Heyl, come back from the West. Clarence Heyl, thecowardy-cat. 

Her mind went back to that day of the street fight. She smiled. At thatmoment Clarence Heyl, who had been screwing about most shockingly, asthough searching for some one, turned and met her smile, intended forno one, with a startlingly radiant one of his own, intended most plainlyfor her. He half started forward in his pew, and then remembered, andsat back again, but with an effect of impermanence that was ludicrous. It had been years since he had left Winnebago. At the time of hismother's death they had tried to reach him, and had been unable toget in touch with him for weeks. He had been off on some mountainexpedition, hundreds of miles from railroad or telegraph. Fannyremembered having read about him in the Winnebago Courier. He seemedto be climbing mountains a great deal--rather difficult mountains, evidently, from the fuss they made over it. A queer enough occupationfor a cowardy-cat. There had been a book, too. About the Rockies. Shehad not read it. She rather disliked these nature books, as do mostnature lovers. She told herself that when she came upon a flaming goldenmaple in October she was content to know it was a maple, and to warm hersoul at its blaze. 

There had been something in the Chicago Herald, though--oh, yes; it hadspoken of him as the brilliant young naturalist, Clarence Heyl. He wasto have gone on an expedition with Roosevelt. A sprained ankle, or somesuch thing, had prevented. Fanny smiled again, to herself. His mother, the fussy person who had been responsible for his boyhood reefers andtoo-shiny shoes, and his cowardice too, no doubt, had dreamed of seeingher Clarence a rabbi. 

From that point Fanny's thoughts wandered to the brave old man in thepulpit. She had heard almost nothing of the service. She looked at himnow--at him, and then at his congregation, inattentive and palpablybored. As always with her, the thing stamped itself on her mind as apicture. She was forever seeing a situation in terms of its human value. How small he looked, how frail, against the background of the massiveArk with its red velvet curtain. And how bravely he glared over hisblue glasses at the two Aarons girls who were whispering and gigglingtogether, eyes on the newcomer. 

So this was what life did to you, was it? Squeezed you dry, and thencast you aside in your old age, a pulp, a bit of discard. Well, they'dnever catch her that way. 

Unchurchly thoughts, these. The little place was very peaceful andquiet, lulling one like a narcotic. The rabbi's voice had in it thatsoothing monotony bred of years in the pulpit. Fanny found her thoughtsstraying back to the busy, bright little store on Elm Street, thenforward, to the Haynes-Cooper plant and the fight that was before her. There settled about her mouth a certain grim line that sat strangely onso young a face. The service marched on. There came the organ preludethat announced the mourners' prayer. Then Rabbi Thalmann began to intonethe Kaddish. Fanny rose, prayer book in hand. At that Clarence Heylrose too, hurriedly, as one unaccustomed to the service, and stoodwith unbowed head, looking at the rabbi interestedly, thoughtfully, reverently. The two stood alone. Death had been kind to CongregationEmanu-el this year. The prayer ended. Fanny winked the tears fromher eyes, almost wrathfully. She sat down, and there swept over her afeeling of finality. It was like the closing of Book One in a volumemade up of three parts. 

She said to herself: "Winnebago is ended, and my life here. Howinteresting that I should know that, and feel it. It is like the firstmovement in one of the concertos Theodore was forever playing. Now forthe second movement! It's got to be lively. Fortissimo! Presto!"

For so clever a girl as Fanny Brandeis, that was a stupid conclusion atwhich to arrive. How could she think it possible to shed her pastlife, like a garment? Those impressionable years, between fourteen andtwenty-four, could never be cast off. She might don a new cloak to coverthe old dress beneath, but the old would always be there, its foldspeeping out here and there, its outlines plainly to be seen. She mighteat of things rare, and drink of things costly, but the sturdy, stockylittle girl in the made-over silk dress, who had resisted the Devil inWeinberg's pantry on that long-ago Day of Atonement, would always bethere at the feast. Myself, I confess I am tired of these stories ofyoung women who go to the big city, there to do battle with failure, tograpple with temptation, sin and discouragement. So it may as wellbe admitted that Fanny Brandeis' story was not that of a painfulhand-over-hand climb. She was made for success. What she attempted, sheaccomplished. That which she strove for, she won. She was too sure, toovital, too electric, for failure. No, Fanny Brandeis' struggle went oninside. And in trying to stifle it she came near making the blackestfailure that a woman can make. In grubbing for the pot of gold shealmost missed the rainbow. 

Rabbi Thalmann raised his arms for the benediction. Fanny lookedstraight up at him as though stamping a picture on her mind. His eyeswere resting gently on her--or perhaps she just fancied that he spoke toher alone as he began the words of the ancient closing prayer:

"May the blessings of the Lord Our God rest upon you. God bless theeand keep thee. May He cause His countenance to shine upon thee and begracious unto thee. May God lift up His countenance unto thee. . . "

At the last word she hurried up the aisle, and down the stairs, into thesoft beauty of the May night. She felt she could stand no good-bys. Inher hotel room she busied herself with the half-packed trunks and bags. So it was she altogether failed to see the dark young man who hurriedafter her eagerly, and who was stopped by a dozen welcoming hands therein the temple vestibule. He swore a deep inward "Damn!" as he saw herstraight, slim figure disappear down the steps and around the corner, even while he found himself saying, politely, "Why, thanks! It's good toBE back. " And, "Yes, things have changed. All but the temple, and RabbiThalmann. "

Fanny left Winnebago at eight next morning. 

CHAPTER NINE

"Mr. Fenger will see you now. " Mr. Fenger, general manager, had beena long time about it. This heel-cooling experience was new to FannyBrandeis. It had always been her privilege to keep others waiting. Still, she felt no resentment as she sat in Michael Fenger's outeroffice. For as she sat there, waiting, she was getting a distinctimpression of this unseen man whose voice she could just hear as hetalked over the telephone in his inner office. It was characteristic ofMichael Fenger that his personality reached out and touched you beforeyou came into actual contact with the man. Fanny had heard of him longbefore she came to Haynes-Cooper. He was the genie of that glitteringlamp. All through the gigantic plant (she had already met departmentheads, buyers, merchandise managers) one heard his name, and felt theimpress of his mind:

"You'll have to see Mr. Fenger about that. "

"Yes, "--pointing to a new conveyor, perhaps, --"that has just beeninstalled. It's a great help to us. Doubles our shipping-roomefficiency. We used to use baskets, pulled by a rope. It's Mr. Fenger'sidea. "

Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency. Fenger had made it a slogan in theHaynes-Cooper plant long before the German nation forced it into oureveryday vocabulary. Michael Fenger was System. He could take a muddleof orders, a jungle of unfilled contracts, a horde of incompetentworkers, and of them make a smooth-running and effective unit. Untangling snarls was his pastime. Esprit de corps was his shibboleth. Order and management his idols. And his war-cry was "Results!"

It was eleven o'clock when Fanny came into his outer office. The veryatmosphere was vibrant with his personality. There hung about the placean air of repressed expectancy. The room was electrically charged withthe high-voltage of the man in the inner office. His secretary was aspare, middle-aged, anxious-looking woman in snuff-brown and spectacles;his stenographer a blond young man, also spectacled and anxious; hisoffice boy a stern youth in knickers, who bore no relation to theslangy, gum-chewing, redheaded office boy of the comic sections. 

The low-pitched, high-powered voice went on inside, talking over thelong-distance telephone. Fenger was the kind of man who is alwaystalking to New York when he is in Chicago, and to Chicago when he is inNew York. Trains with the word Limited after them were invented forhim and his type. A buzzer sounded. It galvanized the office boy intoinstant action. It brought the anxious-looking stenographer to thedoorway, notebook in hand, ready. It sent the lean secretary out, and upto Fanny. 

"Temper, " said Fanny, to herself, "or horribly nervous and high-keyed. They jump like a set of puppets on a string. "

It was then that the lean secretary had said, "Mr. Fenger will see younow. "

Fanny was aware of a pleasant little tingle of excitement. She enteredthe inner office. 

It was characteristic of Michael Fenger that he employed no cheaptricks. He was not writing as Fanny Brandeis came in. He was nottelephoning. He was not doing anything but standing at his desk, waitingfor Fanny Brandeis. As she came in he looked at her, through her, andshe seemed to feel her mental processes laid open to him as a skilledsurgeon cuts through skin and flesh and fat, to lay bare the musclesand nerves and vital organs beneath. He put out his hand. Fanny extendedhers. They met in a silent grip. It was like a meeting between twomen. Even as he indexed her, Fanny's alert mind was busy docketing, numbering, cataloguing him. They had in common a certain force, adriving power. Fanny seated herself opposite him, in obedience to agesture. He crossed his legs comfortably and sat back in his big deskchair. A great-bodied man, with powerful square shoulders, a long head, a rugged crest of a nose--the kind you see on the type of Englishmanwho has the imagination and initiative to go to Canada, or Australia, orAmerica. He wore spectacles, not the fashionable horn-rimmed sort, butthe kind with gold ear pieces. They were becoming, and gave a certainhumanness to a face that otherwise would have been too rugged, toostrong. A man of forty-five, perhaps. 

He spoke first. "You're younger than I thought. "

"So are you. "

"Old inside. "

"So am I. "

He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, folded his arms on the desk. 

"You've been through the plant, Miss Brandeis?"

"Yes. Twice. Once with a regular tourist party. And once with thespecial guide. " "Good. Go through the plant whenever you can. Don'tstick to your own department. It narrows one. " He paused a moment. "Didyou think that this opportunity to come to Haynes-Cooper, as assistantto the infants' wear department buyer was just a piece of luck, augmented by a little pulling on your part?"

"Yes. "

"It wasn't. You were carefully picked by me, and I don't expect to findI've made a mistake. I suppose you know very little about buying andselling infants' wear?"

"Less than about almost any other article in the world--at least, in thedepartment store, or mail order world. "

"I thought so. And it doesn't matter. I pretty well know your history, which means that I know your training. You're young; you're ambitious, you're experienced; you're imaginative. There's no length you can't go, with these. It just depends on how farsighted your mental vision is. Now listen, Miss Brandeis: I'm not going to talk to you in millions. Theguides do enough of that. But you know we do buy and sell in terms ofmillions, don't you? Well, our infants' wear department isn't helpingto roll up the millions; and it ought to, because there are millions ofbabies born every year, and the golden-spoon kind are in the minority. I've decided that that department needs a woman, your kind of woman. Now, as a rule, I never employ a woman when I can use a man. There'sonly one other woman filling a really important position in themerchandise end of this business. That's Ella Monahan, head of the glovedepartment, and she's a genius. She is a woman who is limited in everyother respect--just average; but she knows glove materials in a waythat's uncanny. I'd rather have a man in her place; but I don't happento know any men glove-geniuses. Tell me, what do you think of thatetching?"

Fanny tried--and successfully--not to show the jolt her mind hadreceived as she turned to look at the picture to which his fingerpointed. She got up and strolled over to it, and she was glad her suitfitted and hung as it did in the back. 

"I don't like it particularly. I like it less than any other etching youhave here. " The walls were hung with them. "Of course you understand Iknow nothing about them. But it's too flowery, isn't it, to be good?Too many lines. Like a writer who spoils his effect by using too manywords. "

Fenger came over and stood beside her, staring at the black and whiteand gray thing in its frame. "I felt that way, too. " He stared down ather, then. "Jew?" he asked. 

A breathless instant. "No, " said Fanny Brandeis. 

Michael Fenger smiled for the first time. Fanny Brandeis would havegiven everything she had, everything she hoped to be, to be able totake back that monosyllable. She was gripped with horror at what she haddone. She had spoken almost mechanically. And yet that monosyllable musthave been the fruit of all these months of inward struggle and thought. "Now I begin to understand you, " Fenger went on. "You've decided tolop off all the excrescences, eh? Well, I can't say that I blame you. Awoman in business is handicapped enough by the very fact of her sex. " Hestared at her again. "Too bad you're so pretty. "

"I'm not!" said Fanny hotly, like a school-girl. 

"That's a thing that can't be argued, child. Beauty's subjective, youknow. "

"I don't see what difference it makes, anyway. "

"Oh, yes, you do. " He stopped. "Or perhaps you don't, after all. Iforget how young you are. Well, now, Miss Brandeis, you and your woman'smind, and your masculine business experience and sense are to be turnedloose on our infants' wear department. The buyer, Mr. Slosson, is goingto resent you. Naturally. I don't know whether we'll get results fromyou in a month, or six months or a year. Or ever. But something tells mewe're going to get them. You've lived in a small town most of your life. And we want that small-town viewpoint. D'you think you've got it?"

Fanny was on her own ground here. "If knowing the Wisconsin small-townwoman, and the Wisconsin farmer woman--and man too, for thatmatter--means knowing the Oregon, and Wyoming, and Pennsylvania, andIowa people of the same class, then I've got it. "

"Good!" Michael Fenger stood up. "I'm not going to load you down withinstructions, or advice. I think I'll let you grope your own way around, and bump your head a few times. Then you'll learn where the low placesare. And, Miss Brandeis, remember that suggestions are welcome in thisplant. We take suggestions all the way from the elevator starter to thepresident. " His tone was kindly, but not hopeful. 

Fanny was standing too, her mental eye on the door. But now she turnedto face him squarely. 

"Do you mean that?"

"Absolutely. "

"Well, then, I've one to make. Your stock boys and stock girls walkmiles and miles every day, on every floor of this fifteen-storybuilding. I watched them yesterday, filling up the bins, carryingorders, covering those enormous distances from one bin to another, upone aisle and down the next, to the office, back again. Your floors areconcrete, or cement, or some such mixture, aren't they? I just happenedto think of the boy who used to deliver our paper on Norris Street, inWinnebago, Wisconsin. He covered his route on roller skates. It savedhim an hour. Why don't you put roller skates on your stock boys andgirls?"

Fenger stared at her. You could almost hear that mind of hisworking, like a thing on ball bearings. "Roller skates. " It wasn't anexclamation. It was a decision. He pressed a buzzer--the snuff-brownsecretary buzzer. "Tell Clancy I want him. Now. " He had not glancedup, or taken his eyes from Fanny. She was aware of feeling a littleuncomfortable, but elated, too. She moved toward the door. Fenger stoodat his desk. "Wait a minute. " Fanny waited. Still Fenger did not speak. Finally, "I suppose you know you've earned six months' salary in thelast five minutes. "

Fanny eyed him coolly. "Considering the number of your stock force, thetime, energy, and labor saved, including wear and tear on departmentheads and their assistants, I should say that was a conservativestatement. " And she nodded pleasantly, and left him. 

Two days later every stock clerk in the vast plant was equipped withlight-weight roller skates. They made a sort of carnival of it at first. There were some spills, too, going around corners, and a little too muchhilarity. That wore off in a week. In two weeks their roller skates werepart of them; just shop labor-savers. The report presented to Fenger wasthis: Time and energy saved, fifty-five per cent; stock staff decreasedby one third. The picturesqueness of it, the almost ludicrous simplicityof the idea appealed to the entire plant. It tickled the humor sense inevery one of the ten thousand employees in that vast organization. Inthe first week of her association with Haynes-Cooper Fanny Brandeis wasactually more widely known than men who had worked there for years. Thepresident, Nathan Haynes himself, sent for her, chuckling. 

Nathan Haynes--but then, why stop for him? Nathan Haynes had beenswallowed, long ago, by this monster plant that he himself hadinnocently created. You must have visited it, this Gargantuan thing thatsprawls its length in the very center of Chicago, the giant son ofa surprised father. It is one of the city's show places, like thestockyards, the Art Institute, and Field's. Fifteen years before, a building had been erected to accommodate a prosperous mail orderbusiness. It had been built large and roomy, with plenty of seams, planned amply, it was thought, to allow the boy to grow. It would do fortwenty-five years, surely. In ten years Haynes-Cooper was bursting itsseams. In twelve it was shamelessly naked, its arms and legssticking out of its inadequate garments. New red brick buildingsanother--another. Five stories added to this one, six stories to that, a new fifteen story merchandise building. 

The firm began to talk in tens of millions. Its stock became gilt-edged, unattainable. Lucky ones who had bought of it diffidently, discreetly, with modest visions of four and a half per cent in their unimaginativeminds, saw their dividends doubling, trebling, quadrupling, finallysoaring gymnastically beyond all reason. Listen to the old guide who (atfifteen a week) takes groups of awed visitors through the great plant. How he juggles figures; how grandly they roll off his tongue. How glibhe is with Nathan Haynes's millions. 

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is our mail department. From two thousandto twenty-five hundred pounds of mail, comprising over one hundredthousand letters, are received here every day. Yes, madam, I said everyday. About half of these letters are orders. Last year the bankingdepartment counted one hundred and thirty millions of dollars. Onehundred and thirty millions!" He stands there in his ill-fitting coat, and his star, and rubs one bony hand over the other. 

"Dear me!" says a lady tourist from Idaho, rather inadequately. And yet, not so inadequately. What exclamation is there, please, that fits a sumlike one hundred and thirty millions of anything?

Fanny Brandeis, fresh from Winnebago, Wisconsin, slipped into the greatscheme of things at the Haynes-Cooper plant like part of a perfectlyplanned blue print. It was as though she had been thought out andshaped for this particular corner. And the reason for it was, primarily, Winnebago, Wisconsin. For Haynes-Cooper grew and thrived on just suchtowns, with their surrounding farms and villages. Haynes-Cooper hadtheir fingers on the pulse and heart of the country as did no otherindustry. They were close, close. When rugs began to take the place ofingrain carpets it was Haynes-Cooper who first sensed the change. Oh, they had had them in New York years before, certainly. But after all, it isn't New York's artistic progress that shows the development of thisnation. It is the thing they are thinking, and doing, and learning inBackwash, Nebraska, that marks time for these United States. There maybe a certain significance in the announcement that New York has droppedthe Russian craze and has gone in for that quaint Chinese stuff. Mydear, it makes the loveliest hangings and decorations. When FifthAvenue takes down its filet lace and eyelet embroidered curtains, andsubstitutes severe shantung and chaste net, there is little in theact to revolutionize industry, or stir the art-world. But when theHaynes-Cooper company, by referring to its inventory ledgers, learnsthat it is selling more Alma Gluck than Harry Lauder records; when itsstatistics show that Tchaikowsky is going better than Irving Berlin, something epochal is happening in the musical progress of a nation. Andwhen the orders from Noose Gulch, Nevada, are for those plain dimitycurtains instead of the cheap and gaudy Nottingham atrocities, there isconveyed to the mind a fact of immense, of overwhelming significance. The country has taken a step toward civilization and good taste. 

So. You have a skeleton sketch of Haynes-Cooper, whose feelers reach theremotest dugout in the Yukon, the most isolated cabin in the Rockies, the loneliest ranch-house in Wyoming; the Montana mining shack, thebleak Maine farm, the plantation in Virginia. 

And the man who had so innocently put life into this monster? Aplumpish, kindly-faced man; a bewildered, gentle, unimaginative andsomewhat frightened man, fresh-cheeked, eye-glassed. In his suite ofoffices in the new Administration Building--built two years ago--marbleand oak throughout--twelve stories, and we're adding three already;offices all two-toned rugs, and leather upholstery, with dim, rich, brown-toned Dutch masterpieces on the walls, he sat helpless anddefenseless while the torrent of millions rushed, and swirled, andfoamed about him. I think he had fancied, fifteen years ago, that hewould some day be a fairly prosperous man; not rich, as riches arecounted nowadays, but with a comfortable number of tens of thousandstucked away. Two or three hundred thousand; perhaps five hundredthousand!--perhaps a--but, nonsense! Nonsense!

And then the thing had started. It was as when a man idly throws apebble into a chasm, or shoves a bit of ice with the toe of his boot, and starts a snow-slide that grows as it goes. He had started thisavalanche of money, and now it rushed on of its own momentum, plunging, rolling, leaping, crashing, and as it swept on it gathered rocks, trees, stones, houses, everything that lay in its way. It was beyond the powerof human hand to stop this tumbling, roaring slide. In the midst of itsat Nathan Haynes, deafened, stunned, terrified at the immensity of whathe had done. 

He began giving away huge sums, incredible sums. It piled up faster thanhe could give it away. And so he sat there in the office hung with thedim old masterpieces, and tried to keep simple, tried to keep sane, withthat austerity that only mad wealth can afford--or bitter poverty. Hecaused the land about the plant to be laid out in sunken gardens andbaseball fields and tennis courts, so that one approached this monsterof commerce through enchanted grounds, glowing with tulips and headyhyacinths in spring, with roses in June, blazing with salvia andgolden-glow and asters in autumn. There was something apologetic aboutthese grounds. 

This, then, was the environment that Fanny Brandeis had chosen. On theface of things you would have said she had chosen well. The inspirationof the roller skates had not been merely a lucky flash. That idea hadbeen part of the consistent whole. Her mind was her mother's mind raisedto the nth power, and enhanced by the genius she was trying to crush. Refusing to die, it found expression in a hundred brilliant plans, ofwhich the roller skate idea was only one. 

Fanny had reached Chicago on Sunday. She had entered the city as aqueen enters her domain, authoritatively, with no fear upon her, notrepidation, no doubts. She had gone at once to the Mendota Hotel, on Michigan Avenue, up-town, away from the roar of the loop. It was aresidential hotel, very quiet, decidedly luxurious. She had no idea ofmaking it her home. But she would stay there until she could find anapartment that was small, bright, near the lake, and yet within fairlyreasonable transportation facilities for her work. Her room was on theninth floor, not on the Michigan Avenue side, but east, overlooking thelake. She spent hours at the windows, fascinated by the stone and steelcity that lay just below with the incredible blue of the sail-dottedlake beyond, and at night, with the lights spangling the velvetyblackness, the flaring blaze of Thirty-first Street's chop-sueyrestaurants and moving picture houses at the right; and far, far away, the red and white eye of the lighthouse winking, blinking, winking, blinking, the rumble and clank of a flat-wheeled Indiana avenue car, thesound of high laughter and a snatch of song that came faintly up to herfrom the speeding car of some midnight joy-riders!

But all this had to do with her other side. It had no bearing onHaynes-Cooper, and business. Business! That was it. She had trainedherself for it, like an athlete. Eight hours of sleep. A cold plunge onarising. Sane food. Long walks. There was something terrible about herearnestness. 

On Monday she presented herself at the Haynes-Cooper plant. Monday andTuesday were spent in going over the great works. It was an exhaustingprocess, but fascinating beyond belief. It was on Wednesday that she hadbeen summoned for the talk with Michael Fenger. Thursday morning she wasat her desk at eight-thirty. It was an obscure desk, in a dingy cornerof the infants' wear department, the black sheep section of the greatplant. Her very presence in that corner seemed to change it magically. You must remember how young she was, how healthy, how vigorous, with thefreshness of the small town still upon her. It was health and youth, and vigor that gave that gloss to her hair (conscientious brushing too, perhaps), that color to her cheeks and lips, that brightness to hereyes. But crafty art and her dramatic instinct were responsible for thetailored severity of her costume, for the whiteness of her blouse, thetrim common-sense expensiveness of her shoes and hat and gloves. 

Slosson, buyer and head of the department, came in at nine. Fanny roseto greet him. She felt a little sorry for Slosson. In her mind shealready knew him for a doomed man. 

"Well, well!"--he was the kind of person who would say, well, well!--"You're bright and early, Miss--ah--"

"Brandeis. "

"Yes, certainly; Miss Brandeis. Well, nothing like making a good start. "

"I wanted to go through the department by myself, " said Fanny. "Theshelves and bins, and the numbering system. I see that your newmaternity dresses have just come in. "

"Oh, yes. How do you like them?"

"I think they're unnecessarily hideous, Mr. Slosson. "

"My dear young lady, a plain garment is what they want. Unnoticeable. "

"Unnoticeable, yes; but becoming. At such a time a woman is at herworst. If she can get it, she at least wants a dress that doesn't add toher unattractiveness. "

"Let me see--you are not--ah--married, I believe, Miss Brandeis?"

"No. "

"I am. Three children. All girls. " He passed a nervous hand over hishead, rumpling his hair a little. "An expensive proposition, let me tellyou, three girls. But there's very little I don't know about babies, asyou may imagine. "

But there settled over Fanny Brandeis' face the mask of hardness thatwas so often to transform it. 

The morning mail was in--the day's biggest grist, deluge of it, a flood. Buyer and assistant buyer never saw the actual letters, or attended totheir enclosed orders. It was only the unusual letter, the complaint orprotest that reached their desk. Hundreds of hands downstairs sorted, stamped, indexed, filed, after the letter-opening machines had slit theenvelopes. Those letter-openers! Fanny had hung over them, enthralled. The unopened envelopes were fed into them. Flip! Zip! Flip! Out! Opened!Faster than eye could follow. It was uncanny. It was, somehow, humorous, like the clever antics of a trained dog. You could not believe that thislittle machine actually performed what your eyes beheld. Two years laterthey installed the sand-paper letter-opener, marvel of simplicity. It made the old machine seem cumbersome and slow. Guided by Izzy, theexpert, its rough tongue was capable of licking open six hundred andfifty letters a minute. 

Ten minutes after the mail came in the orders were being filled; bins, shelves, warehouses, were emptying their contents. Up and down theaisles went the stock clerks; into the conveyors went the bundles, downthe great spiral bundle chute, into the shipping room, out by mail, byexpress, by freight. This leghorn hat for a Nebraska country belle; atombstone for a rancher's wife; a plow, brave in its red paint; coffee, tea, tinned fruit, bound for Alaska; lace, muslin, sheeting, toweling, all intended for the coarse trousseau of a Georgia bride. 

It was not remarkable that Fanny Brandeis fitted into this scheme ofthings. For years she had ministered to the wants of just this type ofperson. The letters she saw at Haynes-Cooper's read exactly as customershad worded their wants at Brandeis' Bazaar. The magnitude of the thingthrilled her, the endless possibilities of her own position. 

During the first two months of her work there she was as unaggressiveas possible. She opened the very pores of her mind and absorbed everydetail of her department. But she said little, followed Slosson'sinstructions in her position as assistant buyer, and suggested nochanges. Slosson's wrinkle of anxiety smoothed itself away, and hismanner became patronizingly authoritative again. Fanny seemed to havebecome part of the routine of the place. Fenger did not send for her. June and July were insufferably hot. Fanny seemed to thrive, to expandlike a flower in the heat, when others wilted and shriveled. Thespring catalogue was to be made up in October, as always, six monthsin advance. The first week in August Fanny asked for an interview withFenger. Slosson was to be there. At ten o'clock she entered Fenger'sinner office. He was telephoning--something about dinner at the UnionLeague Club. His voice was suave, his tone well modulated, his accentcorrect, his English faultless. And yet Fanny Brandeis, studying theetchings on his wall, her back turned to him, smiled to herself. Thevoice, the tone, the accent, the English, did not ring true They wereacquired graces, exquisite imitations of the real thing. Fanny Brandeisknew. She was playing the same game herself. She understood this mannow, after two months in the Haynes-Cooper plant. These marvelousexamples of the etcher's art, for example. They were the struggle forexpression of a man whose youth had been bare of such things. His lovefor them was much the same as that which impels the new made millionaireto buy rare pictures, rich hangings, tapestries, rugs, not so muchin the desire to impress the world with his wealth as to satisfy thecraving for beauty, the longing to possess that which is exquisite, andfine, and almost unobtainable. You have seen how a woman, long deniedluxuries, feeds her starved senses on soft silken things, on laces andgleaming jewels, for pure sensuous delight in their feel and look. 

Thus Fanny mused as she eyed these treasures--grim, deft, repressedthings, done with that economy of line which is the test of the etcher'sart. 

Fenger hung up the receiver. 

"So it's taken you two months, Miss Brandeis. I was awfully afraid, fromthe start you made, that you'd be back here in a week, bursting withideas. "

Fanny smiled, appreciatively. He had come very near the truth. "I had touse all my self-control, that first week. After that it wasn't so hard. "

Fenger's eyes narrowed upon her. "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes, " said Fanny. She came over to his desk. 

"I wish we needn't have Mr. Slosson here this morning. After all, he'sbeen here for years, and I'm practically an upstart. He's so much older, too. I--I hate to hurt him. I wish you'd--"

But Fenger shook his head. "Slosson's due now. And he has got to takehis medicine. This is business, Miss Brandeis. You ought to know whatthat means. For that matter, it may be that you haven't hit upon anidea. In that case, Slosson would have the laugh, wouldn't he?"

Slosson entered at that moment. And there was a chip on his shoulder. It was evident in the way he bristled, in the way he seated himself. His fingers drummed his knees. He was like a testy, hum-ha stage fatherdealing with a willful child. 

Fenger took out his watch. 

"Now, Miss Brandeis. "

Fanny took a chair facing the two men, and crossed her trim blue sergeknees, and folded her hands in her lap. A deep pink glowed in hercheeks. Her eyes were very bright. All the Molly Brandeis in her wasat the surface, sparkling there. And she looked almost insultinglyyouthful. 

"You--you want me to talk?"

"We want you to talk. We have time for just three-quarters of an hour ofuninterrupted conversation. If you've got anything to say you ought tosay it in that time. Now, Miss Brandeis, what's the trouble with theHaynes-Cooper infants' wear department?"

And Fanny Brandeis took a long breath

"The trouble with the Haynes-Cooper infants' wear department is that itdoesn't understand women. There are millions of babies born every year. An incredible number of them are mail order babies. I mean by that theyare born to tired, clumsy-fingered immigrant women, to women in millsand factories, to women on farms, to women in remote villages. They'rethe type who use the mail order method. I've learned this one thingabout that sort of woman: she may not want that baby, but either beforeor after it's born she'll starve, and save, and go without properclothing, and even beg, and steal to give it clothes--clothes withlace on them, with ribbon on them, sheer white things. I don't know whythat's true, but it is. Well, we're not reaching them. Our goods areunattractive. They're packed and shipped unattractively. Why, all thisdepartment needs is a little psychology--and some lace that doesn'tlook as if it had been chopped out with an ax. It's the little, silly, intimate things that will reach these women. No, not silly, either. Quite understandable. She wants fine things for her baby, just as thesilver-spoon mother does. The thing we'll have to do is to give hersilver-spoon models at pewter prices. "

"It can't be done, " said Slosson. 

"Now, wait a minute, Slosson, " Fenger put in, smoothly. "Miss Brandeishas given us a very fair general statement. We'll have some facts. Areyou prepared to give us an actual working plan?"

"Yes. At least, it sounds practical to me. And if it does to you--and toMr. Slosson--"

"Humph!" snorted that gentleman, in expression of defiance, unbelief, and a determination not to be impressed. 

It acted as a goad to Fanny. She leaned forward in her chair and talkedstraight at the big, potent force that sat regarding her in silentattention. 

"I still say that we can copy the high-priced models in low-pricedmaterials because, in almost every case, it isn't the material thatmakes the expensive model; it's the line, the cut, the little trick thatgives it style. We can get that. We've been giving them stuff that mighthave been made by prison labor, for all the distinction it had. ThenI think we ought to make a feature of the sanitary methods used in ourinfants' department. Every article intended for a baby's use should bewrapped or boxed as it lies in the bin or on the shelf. And those binsought to be glassed. We would advertise that, and it would advertiseitself. Our visitors would talk about it. This department hasn't beengetting a square deal in the catalogue. Not enough space. It ought tohave not only more catalogue space, but a catalogue all its own--theBaby Book. Full of pictures. Good ones. Illustrations that will makeevery mother think her baby will look like that baby, once it is wearingour No. 29E798--chubby babies, curly-headed, and dimply. And the featureof that catalogue ought to be, not separate garments, but completeoutfits. Outfits boxed, ready for shipping, and ranging in price all theway from twenty-five dollars to three-ninety-eight--"

"It can't be done!" yelled Slosson. "Three-ninety-eight! Outfits!"

"It can be done. I've figured it out, down to a packet of assorted sizesafety pins. We'll call it our emergency outfit. Thirty pieces. Andwhile we're about it, every outfit over five dollars ought to be packedin a pink or a pale blue pasteboard box. The outfits trimmed in pink, pink boxes; the outfits trimmed in blue, blue boxes. In eight cases outof ten their letters will tell us whether it's a pink or blue baby. Andwhen they get our package, and take out that pink or blue box, they'llbe as pleased as if we'd made them a present. It's the personal note--"

"Personal slop!" growled Slosson. "It isn't business. It's sentimentalslush!"

"Sentimental, yes, " agreed Fanny pleasantly, "but then, we're runningthe only sentimental department in this business. And we ought to bedoing it at the rate of a million and a quarter a year. If you thinkthese last suggestions sentimental, I'm afraid the next one--"

"Let's have it, Miss Brandeis, " Fenger encouraged her quietly. 

"It's"--she flashed a mischievous smile at Slosson--"it's a mother'sguide and helper, and adviser. A woman who'll answer questions, giveadvice. Some one they'll write to, with a picture in their minds of alarge, comfortable, motherly-looking person in gray. You know we gethundreds of letters asking whether they ought to order flannel bands, or the double-knitted kind. That sort of thing. And who's been answeringthem? Some sixteen-year-old girl in the mailing department who doesn'tknow a flannel band from a bootee when she sees it. We could call ourwoman something pleasant and everydayish, like Emily Brand. Easy toremember. And until we can find her, I'll answer those letters myself. They're important to us as well as to the woman who writes them. Andnow, there's the matter of obstetrical outfits. Three grades, packedready for shipment, practical, simple, and complete. Our drug sectionhas the separate articles, but we ought to--"

"Oh, lord!" groaned Slosson, and slumped disgustedly in his seat. 

But Fenger got up, came over to Fanny, and put a hand on her shoulderfor a moment. He looked down at her. "I knew you'd do it. " He smiledqueerly. "Tell me, where did you learn all this?"

"I don't know, " faltered Fanny happily. "Brandeis' Bazaar, perhaps. It'sjust another case of plush photograph album. "

"Plush--?"

Fanny told him that story. Even the discomfited Slosson grinned at it. 

But after ten minutes more of general discussion Slosson left. Fenger, without putting it in words, had conveyed that to him. Fanny stayed. They did things that way at Haynes-Cooper. No waste. No delay. That shehad accomplished in two months that which ordinarily takes years was notsurprising. They did things that way, too, at Haynes-Cooper. Take thecase of Nathan Haynes himself. And Michael Fenger too who, not so manyyears before, had been a machine-boy in a Racine woolen mill. 

For my part, I confess that Fanny Brandeis begins to lose interestfor me. Big Business seems to dwarf the finer things in her. Thatred-cheeked, shabby little schoolgirl, absorbed in Zola and peanutbrittle in the Winnebago library, was infinitely more appealing thanthis glib and capable young woman. The spitting wildcat of the streetfight so long ago was gentler by far than this cool person who was sodeliberately taking his job away from Slosson. You, too, feel that wayabout her? That is as it should be. It is the penalty they pay who, given genius, sympathy, and understanding as their birthright, tradethem for the tawdry trinkets money brings. 

Perhaps the last five minutes of that conference between Fanny andMichael Fenger reveals a new side, and presents something of interest. It was a harrowing and unexpected five minutes. 

You may remember how Michael Fenger had a way of looking at one, silently. It was an intent and concentrated gaze that had the effect ofan actual physical hold. Most people squirmed under it. Fanny, feelingit on her now, frowned and rose to leave. 

"Shall you want to talk these things over again? Of course I've onlyoutlined them, roughly. You gave me so little time. "

Fenger, at his desk, did not answer, or turn away his gaze. A littleblaze of wrath flamed into Fanny's face. 

"General manager or not, " she said, very low-voiced, "I wishyou wouldn't sit and glower at me like that. It's rude, and it'sdisconcerting, " which was putting it forthrightly. 

"I beg your pardon!" Fenger came swiftly around the desk, and over toher. "I was thinking very hard. Miss Brandeis, will you dine with mesomewhere tonight? Then to-morrow night? But I want to talk to you. "

"Here I am. Talk. "

"But I want to talk to--you. "

It was then that Fanny Brandeis saved an ugly situation. For shelaughed, a big, wholesome, outdoors sort of laugh. She was honestlyamused. 

"My dear Mr. Fenger, you've been reading the murky magazines. Very badfor you. "

Fenger was unsmiling: "Why won't you dine with me?"

"Because it would be unconventional and foolish. I respect theconventions. They're so sensible. And because it would be unfair to you, and to Mrs. Fenger, and to me. "

"Rot! It's you who have the murky magazine viewpoint, as you call it, when you imply--"

"Now, look here, Mr. Fenger, " Fanny interrupted, quietly. "Let's besquare with each other, even if we're not being square with ourselves. You're the real power in this plant, because you've the brains. Youcan make any person in this organization, or break them. That soundsmelodramatic, but it's true. I've got a definite life plan, and it's ascomplete and detailed as an engineering blue print. I don't intend tolet you spoil it. I've made a real start here. If you want to, I've nodoubt you can end it. But before you do, I want to warn you that I'llmake a pretty stiff fight for it. I'm no silent sufferer. I'll saythings. And people usually believe me when I talk. "

Still the silent, concentrated gaze. With a little impatient exclamationFanny walked toward the door. Fenger, startlingly light and agile forhis great height, followed. 

"I'm sorry, Miss Brandeis, terribly sorry. You see, you interest me verymuch. Very much. "

"Thanks, " dryly. 

"Don't go just yet. Please. I'm not a villain. Really. That is, not adeliberate villain. But when I find something very fine, very intricate, very fascinating and complex--like those etchings, for example--I amintrigued. I want it near me. I want to study it. "

Fanny said nothing. But she thought, "This is a dangerously clever man. Too clever for you. You know so little about them. " Fenger waited. Mostwomen would have found refuge in words. The wrong words. It is only thestrong who can be silent when in doubt. 

"Perhaps you will dine with Mrs. Fenger and me at our home some evening?Mrs. Fenger will speak to you about it. "

"I'm afraid I'm usually too tired for further effort at the end of theday. I'm sorry----"

"Some Sunday night perhaps, then. Tea. "

"Thank you. " And so out, past the spare secretary, the anxious-browedstenographer, the academic office boy, to the hallway, the elevator, andfinally the refuge of her own orderly desk. Slosson was at lunch in oneof the huge restaurants provided for employees in the building acrossthe street. She sat there, very still, for some minutes; for moreminutes than she knew. Her hands were clasped tightly on the desk, andher eyes stared ahead in a puzzled, resentful, bewildered way. Somethinginside her was saying over and over again:

"You lied to him on that very first day. That placed you. That stampedyou. Now he thinks you're rotten all the way through. You lied on thevery first day. "

Ella Monahan poked her head in at the door. The Gloves were on thatfloor, at the far end. The two women rarely saw each other, except atlunch time. 

"Missed you at lunch, " said Ella Monahan. She was a pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman of forty-one or two, prematurely gray and thereforeexcessively young in her manner, as women often are who have grown graybefore their time. 

Fanny stood up, hurriedly. "I was just about to go. "

"Try the grape pie, dear. It's delicious. " And strolled off down theaisle that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. 

Fanny stood for a moment looking after her, as though meaning to callher back. But she must have changed her mind, because she said, "Oh, nonsense!" aloud. And went across to lunch. And ordered grape pie. Andenjoyed it. 

CHAPTER TEN

The invitation to tea came in due time from Mrs. Fenger. A thin, querulous voice over the telephone prepared one for the thin, querulousMrs. Fenger herself. A sallow, plaintive woman, with a misbehavingvalve. The valve, she confided to Fanny, made any effort dangerous. Alsoit made her susceptible to draughts. She wore over her shoulders a scarfthat was constantly slipping and constantly being retrieved by MichaelFenger. The sight of this man, a physical and mental giant, performingthis task ever so gently and patiently, sent a little pang of pitythrough Fanny, as Michael Fenger knew it would. The Fengers lived inan apartment on the Lake Shore Drive--an apartment such as only Chicagoboasts. A view straight across the lake, rooms huge and many-windowed, a glass-enclosed sun-porch gay with chintz and wicker, an incrediblenumber of bathrooms. The guests, besides Fanny, included a young pair, newly married and interested solely in rents, hangings, linen closets, and the superiority of the Florentine over the Jacobean for diningroom purposes; and a very scrubbed looking, handsome, spectacled man ofthirty-two or three who was a mechanical engineer. Fanny failed tocatch his name, though she learned it later. Privately, she dubbed himFascinating Facts, and he always remained that. His conversation wasinvariably prefaced with, "Funny thing happened down at the worksto-day. " The rest of it sounded like something one reads at the foot ofeach page of a loose-leaf desk calendar. 

At tea there was a great deal of silver, and lace, but Fanny thoughtshe could have improved on the chicken a la king. It lacked paprika andpersonality. Mrs. Fenger was constantly directing one or the other ofthe neat maids in an irritating aside. 

After tea Michael Fenger showed Fanny his pictures, not boastfully, butas one who loves them reveals his treasures to an appreciative friend. He showed her his library, too, and it was the library of a reader. Fanny nibbled at it, hungrily. She pulled out a book here, a bookthere, read a paragraph, skimmed a page. There was no attempt atclassification. Lever rubbed elbows with Spinoza; Mark Twain dug afacetious thumb into Haeckel's ribs. Fanny wanted to sit down on thefloor, legs crossed, before the open shelves, and read, and read, andread. Fenger, watching the light in her face, seemed himself to take ona certain glow, as people generally did who found this girl in sympathywith them. 

They were deep in book talk when Fascinating Facts strolled in, lookingaggrieved, and spoiled it with the thoroughness of one who never reads, and is not ashamed of it. 

"My word, I'm having a rotten time, Fenger, " he said, plaintively. "They've got a tape-measure out of your wife's sewing basket, thosetwo in there, and they're down on their hands and knees, measuringsomething. It has to do with their rug, over your rug, or some such rot. And then you take Miss Brandeis and go off into the library. "

"Then stay here, " said Fanny, "and talk books. "

"My book's a blue-print, " admitted Fascinating Facts, cheerfully. "I never get time to read. There's enough fiction, and romance, andadventure in my job to give me all the thrill I want. Why, just lastTuesday--no, Thursday it was--down at the works----"

Between Fanny and Fenger there flashed a look made up of dismay, andamusement, and secret sympathy. It was a look that said, "We both seethe humor of this. Most people wouldn't. Our angle is the same. " Such aglance jumps the gap between acquaintance and friendship that whole daysof spoken conversation cannot cover. 

"Cigar?" asked Fenger, hoping to stay the flood. 

"No, thanks. Say, Fenger, would there be a row if I smoked my pipe?"

"That black one? With the smell?"

"The black one, yes. "

"There would. " Fenger glanced in toward his wife, and smiled, dryly. Fascinating Facts took his hand out of his pocket, regretfully. 

"Wouldn't it sour a fellow on marriage! Wouldn't it! First those twoin there, with their damned linen closets, and their rugs--I beg yourpardon, Miss Brandeis! And now your missus objects to my pipe. Youwouldn't treat me like that, would you, Miss Brandeis?"

There was about him something that appealed--something boyish andlikeable. 

"No, I wouldn't. I'd let you smoke a nargileh, if you wanted to, surrounded by rolls of blue prints. "

"I knew it. I'm going to drive you home for that. "

And he did, in his trim little roadster. It is a fairy road at night, that lake drive between the north and south sides. Even the Rush streetbridge cannot quite spoil it. Fanny sat back luxuriously and let thesoft splendor of the late August night enfold her. She was intelligentlymonosyllabic, while Fascinating Facts talked. At the door of herapartment house (she had left the Mendota weeks before) FascinatingFacts surprised her. 

"I--I'd like to see you again, Miss Brandeis. If you'll let me. "

"I'm so busy, " faltered Fanny. Then it came to her that perhaps he didnot know. "I'm with Haynes-Cooper, you know. Assistant buyer in theinfants' wear department. "

"Yes, I know. I suppose a girl like you couldn't be interested in seeinga chap like me again, but I thought maybe----"

"But I would, " interrupted Fanny, impulsively. "Indeed I would. "

"Really! Perhaps you'll drive, some evening. Over to the BismarckGardens, or somewhere. It would rest you. "

"I'm sure it would. Suppose you telephone me. "

That was her honest, forthright, Winnebago Wisconsin self talking. But up in her apartment the other Fanny Brandeis, the calculating, ambitious, determined woman, said: "Now why did I say that! I never wantto see the boy again. 

"Use him. Experiment with him. Evidently men are going to enter intothis thing. Michael Fenger has, already. And now this boy. Why not trycertain tests with them as we used to follow certain formulae in thechemistry laboratory at high school? This compound, that compound, whatreaction? Then, when the time comes to apply your knowledge, you'llknow. "

Which shows how ignorant she was of this dangerous phase of herexperiment. If she had not been, she must have known that these were notchemicals, but explosives with which she proposed to play. 

The trouble was that Fanny Brandeis, the creative, was not being fed. And the creative fire requires fuel. Fanny Brandeis fed on people, notthings. And her work at Haynes-Cooper was all with inanimate objects. The three months since her coming to Chicago had been crowded andeventful. Haynes-Cooper claimed every ounce of her energy, every atomof her wit and resourcefulness. In return it gave--salary. Not too muchsalary. That would come later, perhaps. Unfortunately, Fanny Brandeisdid not thrive on that kind of fare. She needed people. She cravedcontact. All these millions whom she served--these unseen, unheard menand women, and children--she wanted to see them. She wanted to touchthem. She wanted to talk with them. It was as though a lover of thedrama, eager to see his favorite actress in her greatest part, were tofind himself viewing her in a badly constructed film play. 

So Fanny Brandeis took to prowling. There are people who have a penchantfor cities--more than that, a talent for them, a gift of sensingthem, of feeling their rhythm and pulse-beats, as others have a highlydeveloped music sense, or color reaction. It is a thing that cannotbe acquired. In Fanny Brandeis there was this abnormal response to thecolor and tone of any city. And Chicago was a huge, polyglot orchestra, made up of players in every possible sort of bizarre costume, performingon every known instrument, leaderless, terrifyingly discordant, yet withan occasional strain, exquisite and poignant, to be heard through theclamor and din. 

A walk along State street (the wrong side) or Michigan avenue at five, or through one of the city's foreign quarters, or along the lake frontat dusk, stimulated her like strong wine. She was drunk with it. And allthe time she would say to herself, little blind fool that she was:

"Don't let it get you. Look at it, but don't think about it. Don't letthe human end of it touch you. There's nothing in it. "

And meanwhile she was feasting on those faces in the crowds. Those facesin the crowds! They seemed to leap out at her. They called to her. Soshe sketched them, telling herself that she did it by way of relaxation, and diversion. One afternoon she left her desk early, and perchedherself on one of the marble benches that lined the sunken garden justacross from the main group of Haynes-Cooper buildings. She wanted to seewhat happened when those great buildings emptied. Even her imaginationdid not meet the actuality. At 5:30 the streets about the plant wereempty, except for an occasional passerby. At 5:31 there trickleddown the broad steps of building after building thin dark streams ofhumanity, like the first slow line of lava that crawls down the side ofan erupting volcano. The trickle broadened into a stream, spread intoa flood, became a torrent that inundated the streets, the sidewalks, filling every nook and crevice, a moving mass. Ten thousand people! Acity! Fanny found herself shaking with excitement, and something liketerror at the immensity of it. She tried to get a picture of it, asketch, with the gleaming windows of the red brick buildings as abackground. Amazingly enough, she succeeded in doing it. That wasbecause she tried for broad effects, and relied on one bit of detail forher story. It was the face of a girl--a very tired and tawdry girl, ofsixteen, perhaps. On her face the look that the day's work had stampedthere was being wiped gently away by another look; a look that saidrelease, and a sweetheart, and an evening at the movies. Fanny, in somemiraculous way, got it. 

She prowled in the Ghetto, and sketched those patient Jewish faces, often grotesque, sometimes repulsive, always mobile. She wandered downSouth Clark street, flaring with purple-white arc-lights, and looked inat its windows that displayed a pawnbroker's glittering wares, or, justnext door, a flat-topped stove over which a white-capped magician whoseface smacked of the galley, performed deft tricks with a pancake turner. "Southern chicken dinner, " a lying sign read, "with waffles and realmaple syrup, 35 cents each. " Past these windows promenaded the Clarkstreet women, hard-eyed, high-heeled, aigretted; on the street cornersloafed the Clark street men, blue-shaven, wearing checked suits, soiledfaun-topped shoes, and diamond scarf pins. And even as she watched them, fascinated, they vanished. Clark street changed overnight, and became abusiness thoroughfare, lined with stately office buildings, boastingmarble and gold-leaf banks, filled with hurrying clerks, stenographers, and prosperous bond salesmen. It was like a sporting man who, thrivingin middle age, endeavors to live down his shady past. 

Fanny discovered Cottage Grove avenue, and Halsted street, andJefferson, and South State, where she should never have walked. Thereis an ugliness about Chicago's ugly streets that, for sheer, nakedbrutality, is equaled nowhere in the world. London has its foul streets, smoke-blackened, sinister. But they are ugly as crime is ugly--and asfascinating. It is like the ugliness of an old hag who has lived a life, and who could tell you strange tales, if she would. Walking through themyou think of Fagin, of Children of the Ghetto, of Tales of Mean Streets. Naples is honeycombed with narrow, teeming alleys, grimed with thesediment of centuries, colored like old Stilton, and smelling muchworse. But where is there another Cottage Grove avenue! Sylvan misnomer!A hideous street, and sordid. A street of flat-wheeled cars, ofdelicatessen shops and moving picture houses, of clanging bells, offrowsy women, of men who dart around corners with pitchers, their coatcollars turned up to hide the absence of linen. One day Fanny foundherself at Fifty-first street, and there before her lay Washington Park, with its gracious meadow, its Italian garden, its rose walk, its lagoon, and drooping willows. But then, that was Chicago. All contrast. TheIllinois Central railroad puffed contemptuous cinders into the greatblue lake. And almost in the shadow of the City Hall nestled Bath-HouseJohn's groggery. 

Michigan Avenue fascinated her most. Here was a street developing beforeone's eyes. To walk on it was like being present at a birth. It is oneof the few streets in the world. New York has two, Paris a hundred, London none, Vienna one. Berlin, before the war, knew that no one walkedUnter den Linden but American tourists and German shopkeepers from theprovinces, with their fat wives. But this Michigan Boulevard, unfinishedas Chicago itself, shifting and changing daily, still manages to take ona certain form and rugged beauty. It has about it a gracious breadth. Asyou turn into it from the crash and thunder of Wabash there comes to youa sense of peace. That's the sweep of it, and the lake just beyond, forMichigan avenue is a one-side street. It's west side is a sheer mountainwall of office buildings, clubs, and hotels, whose ground floors arefascinating with specialty shops. A milliner tantalizes the passer-bywith a single hat stuck knowingly on a carved stick. An art store showstwo etchings, and a vase. A jeweler's window holds square blobs ofemeralds, on velvet, and perhaps a gold mesh bag, sprawling limp andinvertebrate, or a diamond and platinum la valliere, chastely barbaric. Past these windows, from Randolph to Twelfth surges the crowd: matineegirls, all white fox, and giggles and orchids; wise-eyed saleswomen fromthe smart specialty shops, dressed in next week's mode; art students, hugging their precious flat packages under their arms; immigrants, in corduroys and shawls, just landed at the Twelfth street station;sightseeing families, dazed and weary, from Kansas; tailored and sabledLake Shore Drive dwellers; convention delegates spilling out of theAuditorium hotel, red-faced, hoarse, with satin badges pinned on theircoats, and their hats (the wrong kind) stuck far back on their heads;music students to whom Michigan Avenue means the Fine Arts Building. There you have the west side. But just across the street the walk isas deserted as though a pestilence lurked there. Here the Art Instituterears its smoke-blackened face, and Grant Park's greenery strugglesbravely against the poisonous breath of the Illinois Central engines. 

Just below Twelfth street block after block shows the solid plate glassof the automobile shops, their glittering wares displayed against anabsurd background of oriental rugs, Tiffany lamps, potted plants, andmahogany. In the windows pose the salesmen, no less sleek and glitteringthan their wares. Just below these, for a block or two, rows of sinisterlooking houses, fallen into decay, with slatternly women lollingat their windows, and gas jets flaring blue in dim hallways. BelowEighteenth still another change, where the fat stone mansions ofChicago's old families (save the mark!) hide their diminished headsbehind signs that read:

"Marguerite. Robes et Manteaux. " And, "Smolkin. Tailor. "

Now, you know that women buyers for mail order houses do not spend theirSaturday afternoons and Sundays thus, prowling about a city's streets. Fanny Brandeis knew it too, in her heart. She knew that the EllaMonahans of her world spent their holidays in stayless relaxation, manicuring, mending a bit, skimming the Sunday papers, massagingcrows'-feet somewhat futilely. She knew that women buyers do not, as arule, catch their breath with delight at sight of the pock-marked oldField Columbian museum in Jackson Park, softened and beautified by thekindly gray chiffon of the lake mist, and tinted by the rouge of thesunset glow, so that it is a thing of spectral loveliness. Successfulmercantile women, seeing the furnace glare of the South Chicago steelmills flaring a sullen red against the lowering sky, do not draw adisquieting mental picture of men toiling there, naked to the waist, andglistening with sweat in the devouring heat of the fires. 

I don't know how she tricked herself. I suppose she said it was thecity's appeal to the country dweller, but she lied, and she knew she waslying. She must have known it was the spirit of Molly Brandeis in her, and of Molly Brandeis' mother, and of her mother's mother's mother, down the centuries to Sarah; repressed women, suffering women, troubled, patient, nomadic women, struggling now in her for expression. 

And Fanny Brandeis went doggedly on, buying and selling infants' wear, and doing it expertly. Her office desk would have interested you. It wasso likely to be littered with the most appealing bits of apparel--apair of tiny, crocheted bootees, pink and white; a sturdy linen smock; asilken hood so small that one's doubled fist filled it. 

The new catalogue was on the presses. Fanny had slaved over it, hamperedby Slosson. Fenger had given her practically a free hand. Results wouldnot come in for many days. The Christmas trade would not tell thetale, for that was always a time of abnormal business. The dull seasonfollowing the holiday rush would show the real returns. Slosson wasdiscouragement itself. His attitude was not resentful; it was pitying, and that frightened Fanny. She wished that he would storm a little. Thenshe read her department catalogue proof sheets, and these reassured her. They were attractive. And the new baby book had turned out very well, with a colored cover that would appeal to any one who had ever been orseen a baby. 

September brought a letter from Theodore. A letter from Theodore meantjust one thing. Fanny hesitated a moment before opening it. She alwayshesitated before opening Theodore's letters. While she hesitated the oldstruggle would rage in her. 

"I don't owe him anything, " the thing within her would say. "God knows Idon't. What have I done all my life but give, and give, and give to him!I'm a woman. He's a man. Let him work with his hands, as I do. He's hadhis share. More than his share. "

Nevertheless she had sent him one thousand of the six thousand hermother had bequeathed to her. She didn't want to do it. She fought doingit. But she did it. 

Now, as she held this last letter in her hands, and stared at theBavarian stamp, she said to herself:

"He wants something. Money. If I send him some I can't have that newtailor suit, or the furs. And I need them. I'm going to have them. "

She tore open the letter. 

"Dear Old Fan:

"Olga and I are back in Munich, as you see. I think we'll be here allwinter, though Olga hates it. She says it isn't lustig. Well, it isn'tVienna, but I think there's a chance for a class here of Americanpupils. Munich's swarming with Americans--whole families who come hereto live for a year or two. I think I might get together a very decentclass, backed by Auer's recommendations. Teaching! Good God, how I hateit! But Auer is planning a series of twenty concerts for me. They oughtto be a success, if slaving can do it. I worked six hours a day allsummer. I wanted to spend the summer--most of it, that is--in HolzhausenAm Ammersee, which is a little village, or artist's colony in thevalley, an hour's ride from here, and within sight of the Bavarian Alps. We had Kurt Stein's little villa for almost nothing. But Olga was bored, and she wasn't well, poor girl, so we went to Interlaken and it wasawful. And that brings me to what I want to tell you. 

"There's going to be a baby. No use saying I'm glad, because I'm not, and neither is Olga. About February, I think. Olga has been simplywretched, but the doctor says she'll feel better from now on. The truthof it is she needs a lot of things and I can't give them to her. I toldyou I'd been working on this concerto of mine. Sometimes I think it'sthe real thing, if only I could get the leisure and the peace of mindI need to work on it. You don't know what it means to be eaten up withambition and to be handicapped. "

"Oh, don't I!" said Fanny Brandeis, between her teeth, and crumpled theletter in her strong fingers. "Don't I!" She got up from her chair andbegan to walk up and down her little office, up and down. A man oftenworks off his feelings thus; a woman rarely. Fenger, who had not beentwice in her office since her coming to the Haynes-Cooper plant, chosethis moment to visit her, his hands full of papers, his head full ofplans. He sensed something wrong at once, as a highly organized humaninstrument responds to a similarly constructed one. 

"What's wrong, girl?"

"Everything. And don't call me girl. "

Fenger saw the letter crushed in her hand. 

"Brother?" She had told him about Theodore and he had been tremendouslyinterested. 

"Yes. "

"Money again, I suppose?"

"Yes, but----"

"You know your salary's going up, after Christmas. "

"Catalogue or no catalogue?"

"Catalogue or no catalogue. "

"Why?"

"Because you've earned it. "

Fanny faced him squarely. "I know that Haynes-Cooper isn't exactly aphilanthropic institution. A salary raise here usually means a battle. I've only been here three months. " Fenger seated himself in the chairbeside her desk and ran a cool finger through the sheaf of papers in hishand. "My dear girl--I beg your pardon. I forgot. My good womanthen--if you like that better--you've transfused red blood into a dyingdepartment. It may suffer a relapse after Christmas, but I don't thinkso. That's why you're getting more money, and not because I happen to betremendously interested in you, personally. "

Fanny's face flamed scarlet. "I didn't mean that. "

"Yes you did. Here are those comparative lists you sent me. If I didn'tknow Slosson to be as honest as Old Dog Tray I'd think he had beenselling us to the manufacturers. No wonder this department hasn't paid. He's been giving 'em top prices for shoddy. Now what's this new plan ofyours?"

In an instant Fanny forgot about Theodore, the new winter suit and furs, everything but the idea that was clamoring to be born. She sat at herdesk, her fingers folding and unfolding a bit of paper, her face alllight and animation as she talked. 

"My idea is to have a person known as a selector for each importantdepartment. It would mean a boiling down of the products of everymanufacturer we deal with, and skimming the cream off the top. As it isnow a department buyer has to do the selecting and buying too. He can'tdo both and get results. We ought to set aside an entire floor for thedisplay of manufacturers' samples. The selector would make his choiceamong these, six months in advance of the season. The selector wouldgo to the eastern markets too, of course. Not to buy. Merely to select. Then, with the line chosen as far as style, quality, and valueis concerned, the buyer would be free to deal directly with themanufacturer as to quantity, time, and all that. You know as well as Ithat that's enough of a job for any one person, with the labor situationwhat it is. He wouldn't need to bother about styles or colors, or any ofthat. It would all have been done for him. The selector would have thereal responsibility. Don't you see the simplicity of it, and the way itwould grease the entire machinery?"

Something very like jealousy came into Michael Fenger's face as helooked at her. But it was gone in an instant. "Gad! You'll have my jobaway from me in two years. You're a super-woman, do you know that?"

"Super nothing! It's just a perfectly good idea, founded on common senseand economy. "

"M-m-m, but that's all Columbus had in mind when he started out to finda short cut to India. "

Fanny laughed out at that. "Yes, but see where he landed!"

But Fenger was serious. "We'll have to have a meeting on this. Are youprepared to go into detail on it, before Mr. Haynes and the two Coopers, at a real meeting in a real mahogany directors' room? Wednesday, say?"

"I think so. "

Fenger got up. "Look here, Miss Brandeis. You need a day in the country. Why don't you run up to your home town over Sunday? Wisconsin, wasn'tit?"

"Oh, no! No. I mean yes it was Wisconsin, but no I don't want to go. "

"Then let me send you my car. "

"Car! No, thanks. That's not my idea of the country. "

"It was just a suggestion. What do you call going to the country, then?"

"Tramping all day, and getting lost, if possible. Lying down undera tree for hours, and letting the ants amble over you. Dreaming. Andcoming back tired, hungry, dusty, and refreshed. "

"It sounds awfully uncomfortable. But I wish you'd try it, this week. "

"Do I look such a wreck?" Fanny demanded, rather pettishly. 

"You!" Fenger's voice was vibrant. "You're the most splendidly alivelooking woman I ever saw. When you came into my office that first dayyou seemed to spark with health, and repressed energy, and electricity, so that you radiated them. People who can do that, stimulate. That'swhat you are to me--a stimulant. "

What can one do with a man who talks like that? After all, what he saidwas harmless enough. His tone was quietly sincere. One can't resent anexpression of the eyes. Then, too, just as she made up her mind to beangry she remembered the limp and querulous Mrs. Fenger, and the valveand the scarf. And her anger became pity. There flashed back to herthe illuminating bit of conversation with which Fascinating Facts hadregaled her on the homeward drive that night of the tea. 

"Nice chap, Fenger. And a wiz in business. Get's a king's salary; Mustbe hell for a man to be tied, hand and foot, the way he is. "

"Tied?"

"Mrs. Fenger's a semi-invalid. At that I don't believe she's as helplessas she seems. I think she just holds him by that shawl of hers, that'sforever slipping. You know he was a machine boy in her father's woolenmill. She met him after he'd worked his way up to an office job. He hasforged ahead like a locomotive ever since. "

That had been their conversation, gossipy, but tremendously enlighteningfor Fanny. She looked up at him now. 

"Thanks for the vacation suggestion. I may go off somewhere. Just alast-minute leap. It usually turns out better, that way. I'll be readyfor the Wednesday discussion. "

She sounded very final and busy. The crumpled letter lay on her desk. She smoothed it out, and the crumple transferred itself to her forehead. Fenger stood a moment, looking down at her. Then he turned, abruptly andleft the office. Fanny did not look up. 

That was Friday. On Saturday her vacation took a personally conductedturn. She had planned to get away at noon, as most office heads did onSaturday, during the warm weather. When her 'phone rang at eleven sheanswered it mechanically as does one whose telephone calls mean a rowwith a tardy manufacturer, an argument with a merchandise man, or acatalogue query from the printer's. 

The name that came to her over the telephone conveyed nothing to her. 

"Who?" Again the name. "Heyl?" She repeated the name uncertainly. "I'mafraid I--O, of course! Clarence Heyl. Howdy-do. "

"I want to see you, " said the voice, promptly. 

There rose up in Fanny's mind a cruelly clear picture of the little, sallow, sniveling school boy of her girlhood. The little boy with thebig glasses and the shiny shoes, and the weak lungs. 

"Sorry, " she replied, promptly, "but I'm afraid it's impossible. I'mleaving the office early, and I'm swamped. " Which was a lie. 

"This evening?"

"I rarely plan anything for the evening. Too tired, as a rule. "

"Too tired to drive?"

"I'm afraid so. "

A brief silence. Then, "I'm coming out there to see you. "

"Where? Here? The plant! That's impossible, Mr. Heyl. I'm terriblysorry, but I can't----"

"Yes, I know. Also terribly sure that if I ever get to you it will beover your office boy's dead body. Well, arm him. I'm coming. Good-by. "

"Wait a minute! Mr. Heyl! Clarence! Hello! Hello!"

A jiggling of the hook. "Number, please?" droned the voice of theoperator. 

Fanny jammed the receiver down on the hook and turned to her work, lipscompressed, a frown forming a double cleft between her eyes. 

Half an hour later he was there. Her office boy brought in his card, asshe had rehearsed him to do. Fanny noted that it was the wrong kind ofcard. She would show him what happened to pushers who pestered businesswomen during office hours. 

"Bring him in in twenty minutes, " she said, grimly. Her office boy (andslave) always took his cue from her. She hoped he wouldn't be too rudeto Heyl, and turned back to her work again. Thirty-nine seconds laterClarence Heyl walked in. 

"Hello, Fan!" he said, and had her limp hand in a grip that made herwince. 

"But I told----"

"Yes, I know. But he's a crushed and broken office boy by now. I had tobe real harsh with him. "

Fanny stood up, really angry now. She looked up at Clarence Heyl, andher eyes were flashing. Clarence Heyl looked down at her, and hiseyes were the keenest, kindest, most gently humorous eyes she had everencountered. You know that picture of Lincoln that shows us his eyeswith much that expression in them? That's as near as I can come toconveying to you the whimsical pathos in this man. They were the eyes ofa lonely little boy grown up. And they had seen much in the process. 

Fanny felt her little blaze of anger flicker and die. 

"That's the girl, " said Heyl, and patted her hand. "You'll likeme--presently. After you've forgotten about that sniveling kid youhated. " He stepped back a pace and threw back his coat senatorially. "How do I look?" he demanded. 

"Look?" repeated Fanny, feebly. 

"I've been hours preparing for this. Years! And now something tellsme--This tie, for instance. "

Fanny bit her lip in a vain effort to retain her solemnity. Then shegave it up and giggled, frankly. "Well, since you ask me, that tie!----"

"What's the matter with it?"

Fanny giggled again. "It's red, that's what. "

"Well, what of it! Red's all right. I've always considered red one ofour leading colors. "

"But you can't wear it. "

"Can't! Why can't I?"

"Because you're the brunest kind of brunette. And dark people have aspecial curse hanging over them that makes them want to wear red. It's fatal. That tie makes you look like a Mafia murderer dressed forbusiness. "

"I knew it, " groaned Heyl. "Something told me. " He sank into a chairat the side of her desk, a picture of mock dejection. "And I chose it. Deliberately. I had black ones, and blue ones, and green ones. And Ichose--this. " He covered his face with a shaking hand. 

Fanny Brandeis leaned back in her chair, and laughed, and laughed, andlaughed. Surely she hadn't laughed like that in a year at least. 

"You're a madman, " she said, finally. 

At that Heyl looked up with his singularly winning smile. "Butdifferent. Concede that, Fanny. Be fair, now. Refreshingly different. "

"Different, " said Fanny, "doesn't begin to cover it. Well, now you'rehere, tell me what you're doing here. "

"Seeing you. "

"I mean here, in Chicago. "

"So do I. I'm on my way from Winnebago to New York, and I'm in Chicagoto see Fanny Brandeis. "

"Don't expect me to believe that. "

Heyl put an arm on Fanny's desk and learned forward, his face veryearnest. "I do expect you to believe it. I expect you to believeeverything I say to you. Not only that, I expect you not to be surprisedat anything I say. I've done such a mass of private thinking about youin the last ten years that I'm likely to forget I've scarcely seen youin that time. Just remember, will you, that like the girl in the sobsong, `You made me what I am to-day?'"

"I! You're being humorous again. "

"Never less so in my life. Listen, Fan. That cowardly, sickly little boyyou fought for in the street, that day in Winnebago, showed every signof growing up a cowardly, sickly man. You're the real reason for hisnot doing so. Now, wait a minute. I was an impressionable little kid, I guess. Sickly ones are apt to be. I worshiped you and hated you fromthat day. Worshiped you for the blazing, generous, whole-souled littledevil of a spitfire that you were. Hated you because--well, what boywouldn't hate a girl who had to fight for him. Gosh! It makes me sick tothink of it, even now. Pasty-faced rat!"

"What nonsense! I'd forgotten all about it. "

"No you hadn't. Tell me, what flashed into your mind when you saw me inTemple that night before you left Winnebago? The truth, now. "

She learned, later, that people did not lie to him. She tried it now, and found herself saying, rather shamefacedly, "I thought `Why, it'sClarence Heyl, the Cowardy-Cat!'"

"There! That's why I'm here to-day. I knew you were thinking that. Iknew it all the time I was in Colorado, growing up from a sickly kid, with a bum lung, to a heap big strong man. It forced me to do things Iwas afraid to do. It goaded me on to stunts at the very thought of whichI'd break out in a clammy sweat. Don't you see how I'll have to turnhandsprings in front of you, like the school-boy in the McCutcheoncartoon? Don't you see how I'll have to flex my muscles--like this--toshow you how strong I am? I may even have to beat you, eventually. Why, child, I've chummed with lions, and bears, and wolves, and everything, because of you, you little devil in the red cap! I've climbedunclimbable mountains. I've frozen my feet in blizzards. I've wanderedfor days on a mountain top, lost, living on dried currants and milkchocolate, --and Lord! how I hate milk chocolate! I've dodged snowslides, and slept in trees; I've endured cold, and hunger and thirst, throughyou. It took me years to get used to the idea of passing a timber wolfwithout looking around, but I learned to do it--because of you. You mademe. They sent me to Colorado, a lonely kid, with a pretty fair chanceof dying, and I would have, if it hadn't been for you. There! How's thatfor a burst of speech, young woman! And wait a minute. Remember, too, myname was Clarence. I had that to live down. "

Fanny was staring at him eyes round, lips parted. "But why?" she said, faintly. "Why?"

Heyl smiled that singularly winning smile of his. "Since you force me toit, I think I'm in love with that little, warm-hearted spitfire in thered cap. That's why. "

Fanny sat forward now. She had been leaning back in her chair, herhands grasping its arms, her face a lovely, mobile thing, across whichlaughter, and pity, and sympathy and surprise rippled and played. Ithardened now, and set. She looked down at her hands, and clasped themin her lap, then up at him. "In that case, you can forsake the strenuouslife with a free conscience. You need never climb another mountain, orwrestle with another--er--hippopotamus. That little girl in the red capis dead. "

"Dead?"

"Yes. She died a year ago. If the one who has taken her place were topass you on the street today, and see you beset by forty thieves, she'dnot even stop. Not she. She'd say, `Let him fight it out alone. It'snone of your business. You've got your own fights to handle. '"

"Why--Fanny. You don't mean that, do you? What could have made her likethat?"

"She just discovered that fighting for others didn't pay. She justhappened to know some one else who had done that all her life and--itkilled her. "

"Her mother?"

"Yes. "

A little silence. "Fanny, let's play outdoors tomorrow, will you? Allday. "

Involuntarily Fanny glanced around the room. Papers, catalogues, files, desk, chair, typewriter. "I'm afraid I've forgotten how. "

"I'll teach you. You look as if you could stand a little of it. "

"I must be a pretty sight. You're the second man to tell me that in twodays. "

Heyl leaned forward a little. "That so? Who's the other one?"

"Fenger, the General Manager. "

"Oh! Paternal old chap, I suppose. No? Well, anyway, I don't know whathe had in mind, but you're going to spend Sunday at the dunes of Indianawith me. "

"Dunes? Of Indiana?"

"There's nothing like them in the world. Literally. In Septemberthat combination of yellow sand, and blue lake, and the woods beyondis--well, you'll see what it is. It's only a little more than an hour'sride by train. And it will just wipe that tired look out of your face, Fan. " He stood up. "I'll call for you tomorrow morning at eight, orthereabouts. That's early for Sunday, but it's going to be worth it. "

"I can't. Really. Besides, I don't think I even want to. I----"

"I promise not to lecture on Nature, if that's what's worrying you. " Hetook her hand in a parting grip. "Bring some sandwiches, will you? Quitea lot of 'em. I'll have some other stuff in my rucksack. And wear someclothes you don't mind wrecking. I suppose you haven't got a red tam o'shanter?"

"Heavens, no!"

"I just thought it might help to keep me humble. " He was at the door, and so was she, somehow, her hand still in his. "Eight o'clock. How doyou stand it in this place, Fan? Oh, well--I'll find that out to-morrow. Good-by. "

Fanny went back to her desk and papers. The room seemed all at onceimpossibly stuffy, her papers and letters dry, meaningless things. Inthe next office, separated from her by a partition half glass, halfwood, she saw the top of Slosson's bald head as he stood up to shuthis old-fashioned roll-top desk. He was leaving. She looked out of thewindow. Ella Monahan, in hat and suit, passed and came back to poke herhead in the door. 

"Run along!" she said. "It's Saturday afternoon. You'll work overtimeenough when the Christmas rush begins. Come on, child, and call it aday!"

And Fanny gathered papers, figures, catalogue proofs into a gloriousheap, thrust them into a drawer, locked the drawer, pushed back herchair, and came. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fanny told herself, before she went to bed Saturday night, that shehoped it would rain Sunday morning from seven to twelve. But whenPrincess woke her at seven-thirty, as per instructions left in penciledscrawl on the kitchen table, she turned to the window at once, and wasglad, somehow, to find it sun-flooded. Princess, if you're mystified, was royal in name only--a biscuit-tinted lady, with a very black andno-account husband whose habits made it necessary for Princess to letherself into Fanny's four-room flat at seven every morning, and letherself out at eight every evening. She had an incredibly soft andmusical voice, had Princess, and a cooking hand. She kept Fanny mended, fed and comfortable, and her only cross was that Fanny's taste inblouses (ultimately her property) ran to the severe and tailored. 

"Mawnin', Miss Fanny. There's a gep'mun waitin' to see yo'. "

Fanny choked on a yawn. "A what!"

"Gep'mun. Says yo-all goin' picnickin'. He's in the settin' room, a-lookin' at yo' pictchah papahs. Will Ah fry yo' up a li'l chicken topack along? San'wiches ain't no eatin' fo' Sunday. "

Fanny flung back her covers, swung around to the side of the bed, andstood up, all, seemingly, in one sweeping movement. "Do you mean to tellme he's in there, now?"

From the sitting room. "I think I ought to tell you I can heareverything you're saying. Say. Fanny, those sketches of yoursare----Why, Gee Whiz! I didn't know you did that kind of thing. This onehere, with that girl's face in the crowd----"

"For heaven's sake!" Fanny demanded, "what are you doing here atseven-thirty? And I don't allow people to look at those sketches. Yousaid eight-thirty. "

"I was afraid you'd change your mind, or something. Besides, it'snow twenty-two minutes to eight. And will you tell the lady that's awonderful idea about the chicken? Only she'd better start now. "

Goaded by time bulletins shouted through the closed door, Fanny foundherself tubbed, clothed, and ready for breakfast by eight-ten. Whenshe opened the door Clarence was standing in the center of her littlesitting room, waiting, a sheaf of loose sketches in his hand. 

"Say, look here! These are the real thing. Why, they're great! They getyou. This old geezer with the beard, selling fish and looking like oneof the Disciples. And this. What the devil are you doing in a mail orderhouse, or whatever it is? Tell me that! When you can draw like this!"

"Good morning, " said Fanny, calmly. "And I'll tell you nothing beforebreakfast. The one thing that interests me this moment is hot coffee. Will you have some breakfast? Oh, well, a second one won't hurt you. You must have got up at three, or thereabouts. " She went toward the tinykitchen. "Never mind, Princess. I'll wait on myself. You go on with thatchicken. "

Princess was the kind of person who can fry a chicken, wrap it incool, crisp lettuce leaves, box it, cut sandwiches, and come out of theprocess with an unruffled temper and an immaculate kitchen. Thanks toher, Fanny and Heyl found themselves on the eight fifty-three train, bound for the dunes. 

Clarence swung his rucksack up to the bundle rack. He took off his cap, and stuffed it into his pocket. He was grinning like a schoolboy. Fannyturned from the window and smiled at what she saw in his face. At thathe gave an absurd little bounce in his place, like an overgrown child, and reached over and patted her hand. 

"I've dreamed of this for years. "

"You're just fourteen, going on fifteen, " Fanny reproved him. 

"I know it. And it's great! Won't you be, too? Forget you're a fairfinancier, or whatever they call it. Forget you earn more in a monththan I do in six. Relax. Unbend. Loosen up. Don't assume that hardshellair with me. Just remember that I knew you when the frill of yourpanties showed below your skirt. "

"Clarence Heyl!"

But he was leaning past her, and pointing out of the window. "See thatcurtain of smoke off there? That's the South Chicago, and the Hammondand Gary steel mills. Wait till you see those smokestacks against thesky, and the iron scaffoldings that look like giant lacework, and theslag heaps, and the coal piles, and those huge, grim tanks. Gad! It'sawful and beautiful. Like the things Pennell does. " "I came out here onthe street car one day, " said Fanny, quietly. "One Sunday. "

"You did!" He stared at her. 

"It was hot, and they were all spilling out into the street. You know, the women in wrappers, just blobs of flesh trying to get cool. And theyoung girls in their pink silk dresses and white shoes, and the boys onthe street corners, calling to them. Babies all over the sidewalks andstreets, and the men who weren't in the mills--you know how they look intheir Sunday shirtsleeves, with their flat faces, and high cheekbones, and their great brown hands with the broken nails. Hunkies. Well, atfive the motor cars began whizzing by from the country roads backto Chicago. You have to go back that way. Just then the five o'clockwhistles blew and the day shift came off. There was a great army ofthem, clumping down the road the way they do. Their shoulders wereslack, and their lunch pails dangled, empty, and they were wet andreeking with sweat. The motor cars were full of wild phlox and daisiesand spiderwort. "

Clarence was still turned sideways, looking at her. "Get a picture ofit?"

"Yes. I tried, at least. "

"Is that the way you usually spend your Sundays?"

"Well, I--I like snooping about. "

"M-m, " mused Clarence. Then, "How's business, Fanny?"

"Business?" You could almost feel her mind jerk back. "Oh, let's nottalk about business on Sunday. "

"I thought so, " said Clarence, enigmatically. "Now listen to me, Fanny. "

"I'll listen, " interrupted she, "if you'll talk about yourself. Iwant to know what you're doing, and why you're going to New York. Whatbusiness can a naturalist have in New York, anyway?"

"I didn't intend to be a naturalist. You can tell that by looking at me. But you can't have your very nose rubbed up against trees, and rocks, and mountains, and snow for years and years without learning somethingabout 'em. There were whole weeks when I hadn't anything to chum withbut a timber-line pine and an odd assortment of mountain peaks. We justhad to get acquainted. "

"But you're going back, aren't you? Don't they talk about the spell ofthe mountains, or some such thing?" "They do. And they're right. AndI've got to have them six months in the year, at least. But I'm goingto try spending the other six in the bosom of the human race. Not onlythat, I'm going to write about it. Writing's my job, really. At least, it's the thing I like best. "

"Nature?"

"Human nature. I went out to Colorado just a lonesome little kid witha bum lung. The lung's all right, but I never did quite get over theother. Two years ago, in the mountains, I met Carl Lasker, who ownsthe New York Star. It's said to be the greatest morning paper in thecountry. Lasker's a genius. And he fries the best bacon I ever tasted. I took him on a four-weeks' horseback trip through the mountains. We gotpretty well acquainted. At the end of it he offered me a job. You see, I'd never seen a chorus girl, or the Woolworth building, or a cabaret, or a broiled lobster, or a subway. But I was interested and curiousabout all of them. And Lasker said, `A man who can humanize a rock, ora tree, or a chipmunk ought to be able to make even those things seemhuman. You've got what they call the fresh viewpoint. New York's full ofpeople with a scum over their eyes, but a lot of them came to New Yorkfrom Winnebago, or towns just like it, and you'd be surprised at thenumber of them who still get their home town paper. One day, when Icame into Lee Kohl's office, with stars, and leading men, and all thatwaiting outside to see him, he was sitting with his feet on the deskreading the Sheffield, Illinois, Gazette. ' You see, the thing he thinksI can do is to give them a picture of New York as they used to see it, before they got color blind. A column or so a day, about anything thathits me. How does that strike you as a job for a naturalist?"

"It's a job for a human naturalist. I think you'll cover it. "

If you know the dunes, which you probably don't, you know why they didnot get off at Millers, with the crowd, but rode on until they werefree of the Sunday picnickers. Then they got off, and walked across thetracks, past saloons, and a few huddled houses, hideous in yellow paint, and on, and on down a road that seemed endless. A stretch of cinders, then dust, a rather stiff little hill, a great length of yellow sandand--the lake! We say, the lake! like that, with an exclamation pointafter it, because it wasn't at all the Lake Michigan that Chicagoansknow. This vast blue glory bore no relation to the sullen, gray, turbidthing that the city calls the lake. It was all the blues of which you'veever heard, and every passing cloud gave it a new shade. Sapphire. No, cobalt. No, that's too cold. Mediterranean. Turquoise. And the sand ingolden contrast. Miles of sand along the beach, and back of that thedunes. Now, any dictionary or Scotchman will tell you that a dune isa hill of loose sand. But these dunes are done in American fashion, lavishly. Mountains of sand, as far as the eye can see, and on the topof them, incredibly, great pine trees that clutch at their perilous, shifting foothold with frantic root-toes. And behind that, still moreincredibly, the woods, filled with wild flowers, with strange growthsfound nowhere else in the whole land, with trees, and vines, and brush, and always the pungent scent of the pines. And there you have thedunes--blue lake, golden sand-hills, green forest, in one. 

Fanny and Clarence stood there on the sand, in silence, two ridiculouslydiminutive figures in that great wilderness of beauty. I wish I couldget to you, somehow, the clear sparkle of it, the brilliance of it, andyet the peace of it. They stood there a long while, those two, withoutspeaking. Then Fanny shut her eyes, and I think her lower lip trembledjust a little. And Clarence patted her hand just twice. 

"I thank you, " he said, "in the name of that much-abused lady known asNature. "

Said Fanny, "I want to scramble up to the top of one of those dunes--thehigh one--and just sit there. "

And that is what they did. A poor enough Sunday, I suppose, in the mindsof those of you who spend yours golfing at the club, or motoring alonggrease-soaked roads that lead to a shore dinner and a ukulele band. Butit turned Fanny Brandeis back a dozen years or more, so that she wasagain the little girl whose heart had ached at sight of the pale roseand, orange of the Wisconsin winter sunsets. She forgot all aboutlayettes, and obstetrical outfits, and flannel bands, and safety pins;her mind was a blank in the matter of bootees, and catalogues, and ourNo. 29E8347, and those hungry bins that always yawned for more. Sheforgot about Michael Fenger, and Theodore, and the new furs. Theyscrambled up dunes, digging into the treacherous sand with heels, toes, and the side of the foot, and clutching at fickle roots with franticfingers. Forward a step, and back two--that's dune climbing. Aback-breaking business, unless you're young and strong, as were thesetwo. They explored the woods, and Heyl had a fascinating way of talkingabout stones and shrubs and trees as if they were endowed with humanqualities--as indeed they were for him. They found a hill-slope carpetedwith dwarf huckleberry plants, still bearing tiny clusters of theblue-black fruit. Fanny's heart was pounding, her lungs ached, hercheeks were scarlet, her eyes shining. Heyl, steel-muscled, took thehills like a chamois. Once they crossed hands atop a dune and literallyskated down it, right, left, right, left, shrieking with laughter, andending in a heap at the bottom. "In the name of all that's idiotic!"shouted Heyl. "Silk stockings! What in thunder made you wear silkstockings! At the sand dunes! Gosh!"

They ate their dinner in olympic splendor, atop a dune. Heyl producedunexpected things from the rucksack--things that ranged all the way frommilk chocolate to literature, and from grape juice to cigarettes. They ate ravenously, but at Heyl's thrifty suggestion they saved a fewsandwiches for the late afternoon. It was he, too, who made a littlebonfire of papers, crusts, and bones, as is the cleanly habit of yourtrue woodsman. Then they stretched out, full length, in the noon sun, onthe warm, clean sand. 

"What's your best price on one-sixth doz. Flannel vests?" inquired Heyl. 

And, "Oh, shut up!" said Fanny, elegantly. Heyl laughed as one who hugsa secret. 

"We'll work our way down the beach, " he announced, "toward Millers. There'll be northern lights to-night; did you know that? Want to stayand see them?"

"Do I want to! I won't go home till I have. "

These were the things they did on that holiday; childish, happy, tiringthings, such as people do who love the outdoors. 

The charm of Clarence Heyl--for he had charm--is difficult to transmit. His lovableness and appeal lay in his simplicity. It was not so muchwhat he said as in what he didn't say. He was staring unwinkingly now atthe sunset that had suddenly burst upon them. His were the eyes of oneaccustomed to the silent distances. 

"Takes your breath away, rather, doesn't it? All that color?" saidFanny, her face toward the blaze. 

"Almost too obvious for my taste. I like 'em a little more subdued, myself. " They were atop a dune, and he stretched himself flat on thesand, still keeping his bright brown eyes on lake and sky. Then he satup, excitedly. "Heh, try that! Lie flat. It softens the whole thing. Like this. Now look at it. The lake's like molten copper flowing in. And you can see that silly sun going down in jerks, like a balloon on astring. "

They lay there, silent, while the scarlet became orange, the orangefaded to rose, the rose to pale pink, to salmon, to mauve, to gray. The first pale star came out, and the brazen lights of Gary, far to thenorth, defied it. Fanny sat up with a sigh and a little shiver. 

"Fasten up that sweater around your throat, " said Heyl. "Got a pin?"They munched their sandwiches, rather soggy by now, and drank the lastof the grape juice. "We'll have a bite of hot supper in town, at arestaurant that doesn't mind Sunday trampers. Come on, Fan. We'll startdown the beach until the northern lights begin to show. "

"It's been the most accommodating day, " murmured Fanny. "Sunshine, sunset, northern lights, everything. If we were to demand a rainbow andan eclipse they'd turn those on, too. "

They started to walk down the beach in the twilight, keeping close tothe water's edge where the sand was moist and firm. It was hard going. They plunged along arm in arm, in silence. Now and again they stopped, with one accord, and looked out over the great gray expanse that laybefore them, and then up at the hills and the pines etched in blackagainst the sky. Nothing competitive here, Fanny thought, and took adeep breath. She thought of to-morrow's work, with day after to-morrow'sbiting and snapping at its heels. 

Clarence seemed to sense her thoughts. "Doesn't this make you feel youwant to get away from those damned bins that you're forever feeding?I watched those boys for a minute, the other day, outside your office. Jove!"

Fanny dug a heel into the sand, savagely. "Some days I feel that I'vegot to walk out of the office, and down the street, without a hat, andon, and on, walking and walking, and running now and then, till I cometo the horizon. That's how I feel, some days. "

"Then some day, Fanny, that feeling will get too strong for you, andyou'll do it. Now listen to me. Tuck this away in your subconsciousmind, and leave it there until you need it. When that time comes get ona train for Denver. From Denver take another to Estes Park. That's theRocky Mountains, and they're your destination, because that's wherethe horizon lives and has its being. When you get there ask for Heyl'splace. They'll just hand you from one to the other, gently, until youget there. I may be there, but more likely I shan't. The key's in themail box, tied to a string. You'll find a fire already laid, in thefireplace, with fat pine knots that will blaze up at the touch of amatch. My books are there, along the walls. The bedding's in the cedarchest, and the lamps are filled. There's tinned stuff in the pantry. Andthe mountains are there, girl, to make you clean and whole again. Andthe pines that are nature's prophylactic brushes. And the sky. Andpeace. That sounds like a railway folder, but it's true. I know. " Theytrudged along in silence for a little while. "Got that?"

"M-m, " replied Fanny, disinterestedly, without looking at him. 

Heyl's jaw set. You could see the muscles show white for an instant. Then he said: "It has been a wonderful day, Fanny, but you haven't toldme a thing about yourself. I'd like to know about your work. I'd like toknow what you're doing; what your plan is. You looked so darneddefinite up there in that office. Whom do you play with? And who's thisFenger--wasn't that the name?--who saw that you looked tired?"

"All right, Clancy. I'll tell you all about it, " Fanny agreed, briskly. 

"All right--who!"

"Well, I can't call you Clarence. It doesn't fit. So just for the restof the day let's make it Clancy, even if you do look like one of theminor Hebrew prophets, minus the beard. "

And so she began to tell him of her work and her aims. I think that shehad been craving just this chance to talk. That which she told him was, unconsciously, a confession. She told him of Theodore and his marriage;of her mother's death; of her coming to Haynes-Cooper, and the changesshe had brought about there. She showed him the infinite possibilitiesfor advancement there. Slosson she tossed aside. Then, rather haltingly, she told him of Fenger, of his business genius, his magnetic qualities, of his career. She even sketched a deft word-picture of the limp andirritating Mrs. Fenger. 

"Is this Fenger in love with you?" asked Heyl, startlingly. 

Fanny recoiled at the idea with a primness that did credit to Winnebago. 

"Clancy! Please! He's married. "

"Now don't sneak, Fanny. And don't talk like an ingenue. So far, you'veoutlined a life-plan that makes Becky Sharp look like a cooing dove. Sojust answer this straight, will you?"

"Why, I suppose I attract him, as any man of his sort, with a wife likethat, would be attracted to a healthily alert woman, whose ideas matchhis. And I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that. It hurts. "

"I'm glad of that. I was afraid you'd passed that stage. Well now, howabout those sketches of yours? I suppose you know that they're asgood, in a crude, effective sort of way, as anything that's being doneto-day. "

"Oh, nonsense!" But then she stopped, suddenly, and put both hands onhis arm, and looked up at him, her face radiant in the gray twilight. "Do you really think they're good!"

"You bet they're good. There isn't a newspaper in the country thatcouldn't use that kind of stuff. And there aren't three people in thecountry who can do it. It isn't a case of being able to draw. It's beingable to see life in a peculiar light, and to throw that light so thatothers get the glow. Those sketches I saw this morning are life, servedup raw. That's your gift, Fanny. Why the devil don't you use it!"

But Fanny had got herself in hand again. "It isn't a gift, " she said, lightly. "It's just a little knack that amuses me. There's no money init. Besides, it's too late now. One's got to do a thing superlatively, nowadays, to be recognized. I don't draw superlatively, but I do handleinfants' wear better than any woman I know. In two more years I'll begetting ten thousand a year at Haynes-Cooper. In five years----"

"Then what?"

Fanny's hands became fists, gripping the power she craved. "Then I shallhave arrived. I shall be able to see the great and beautiful things ofthis world, and mingle with the people who possess them. "

"When you might be making them yourself, you little fool. Don't glare atme like that. I tell you that those pictures are the real expressionof you. That's why you turn to them as relief from the shop grind. Youcan't help doing them. They're you. "

"I can stop if I want to. They amuse me, that's all. "

"You can't stop. It's in your blood. It's the Jew in you. "

"The----Here, I'll show you. I won't do another sketch for a year. I'llprove to you that my ancestors' religion doesn't influence my work, ormy play. "

"Dear, you can't prove that, because the contrary has been proven longago. You yourself proved it when you did that sketch of the old fishvender in the Ghetto. The one with the beard. It took a thousand yearsof suffering and persecution and faith to stamp that look on his face, and it took a thousand years to breed in you the genius to see it, andput it down on paper. Fan, did you ever read Fishberg's book?"

"No, " said Fanny, low-voiced. 

"Sometime, when you can snatch a moment from the fascinations of themail order catalogue, read it. Fishberg says--I wish I could rememberhis exact words--`It isn't the body that marks the Jew. It's his Soul. The type is not anthropological, or physical; it's social or psychic. Itisn't the complexion, the nose, the lips, the head. It's his Soul whichbetrays his faith. Centuries of Ghetto confinement, ostracism, ceaselesssuffering, have produced a psychic type. The thing that is stamped onthe Soul seeps through the veins and works its way magically to theface----'"

"But I don't want to talk about souls! Please! You're spoiling awonderful day. "

"And you're spoiling a wonderful life. I don't object to this drivingambition in you. I don't say that you're wrong in wanting to make aplace for yourself in the world. But don't expect me to stand by and letyou trample over your own immortal soul to get there. Your head is busyenough on this infants' wear job, but how about the rest of you--howabout You? What do you suppose all those years of work, and suppression, and self-denial, and beauty-hunger there in Winnebago were meant for!Not to develop the mail order business. They were given you so that youmight recognize hunger, and suppression, and self-denial in others. Thelight in the face of that girl in the crowd pouring out of the plant. What's that but the reflection of the light in you! I tell you, Fanny, we Jews have got a money-grubbing, loud-talking, diamond-studded, get-there-at-any-price reputation, and perhaps we deserve it. But everynow and then, out of the mass of us, one lifts his head and standserect, and the great white light is in his face. And that person hassuffered, for suffering breeds genius. It expands the soul just asover-prosperity shrivels it. You see it all the way from Lew Fields toSarah Bernhardt; from Mendelssohn to Irving Berlin; from Mischa Elmanto Charlie Chaplin. You were a person set apart in Winnebago. Instead ofthanking your God for that, you set out to be something you aren't. No, it's worse than that. You're trying not to be what you are. And it'sgoing to do for you. "

"Stop!" cried Fanny. "My head's whirling. It sounds like something outof `Alice in Wonderland. '"

"And you, " retorted Heyl, "sound like some one who's afraid to talk orthink about herself. You're suppressing the thing that is you. You'recutting yourself off from your own people--a dramatic, impulsive, emotional people. By doing those things you're killing the goose thatlays the golden egg. What's that old copy-book line? `To thine own selfbe true, ' and the rest of it. "

"Yes; like Theodore, for example, " sneered Fanny. 

At which unpleasant point Nature kindly supplied a diversion. Acrossthe black sky there shot two luminous shafts of lights. Northern lights, pale sisters of the chromatic glory one sees in the far north, but stillweirdly beautiful. Fanny and Heyl stopped short, faces upturned. Theghostly radiance wavered, expanded, glowed palely, like celestialsearchlights. Suddenly, from the tip of each shaft, there burst acluster of slender, pin-point lines, like aigrettes set in a band ofsilver. Then these slowly wavered, faded, combined to form a third andfourth slender shaft of light. It was like the radiance one sees in theold pictures of the Holy Family. Together Fanny and Heyl watched it insilence until the last pale glimmer faded and was gone, and only thebrazen lights of Gary, far, far down the beach, cast a fiery glowagainst the sky. 

They sighed, simultaneously. Then they laughed, each at the other. 

"Curtain, " said Fanny. They raced for the station, despite the sand. Their car was filled with pudgy babies lying limp in parental arms;with lunch baskets exuding the sickly scent of bananas; with disheveledvandals whose moist palms grasped bunches of wilted wild flowers. Pastthe belching chimneys of Gary, through South Chicago, the back yard of ametropolis, past Jackson Park that breathed coolly upon them, and so tothe city again. They looked at it with the shock that comes to eyesthat have rested for hours on long stretches of sand and sky and water. Monday, that had seemed so far away, became an actuality of to-morrow. 

Tired as they were, they stopped at one of those frank littlerestaurants that brighten Chicago's drab side streets. Its windows werefull of pans that held baked beans, all crusty and brown, and falselytempting, and of baked apples swimming in a pool of syrup. These flankedby ketchup bottles and geometrical pyramids of golden grape-fruit. 

Coffee and hot roast beef sandwiches, of course, in a place like that. "And, " added Fanny, "one of those baked apples. Just to prove they can'tbe as good as they look. "

They weren't, but she was too hungry to care. Not too hungry, though, tonote with quick eye all that the little restaurant held of interest, nortoo sleepy to respond to the friendly waitress who, seeing their dustyboots, and the sprig of sumac stuck in Fanny's coat, said, "My, itmust have been swell in the country today!" as her flapping napkinprecipitated crumbs into their laps. 

"It was, " said Fanny, and smiled up at the girl with her generous, flashing smile. "Here's a bit of it I brought back for you. " And shestuck the scarlet sumac sprig into the belt of the white apron. 

They finished the day incongruously by taking a taxi home, Fanny yawningluxuriously all the way. "Do you know, " she said, as they parted, "we'vetalked about everything from souls to infants' wear. We're talked out. It's a mercy you're going to New York. There won't be a next time. "

"Young woman, " said Heyl, forcefully, "there will. That young devilin the red tam isn't dead. She's alive. And kicking. There's a kick inevery one of those Chicago sketches in your portfolio upstairs. You saidshe wouldn't fight anybody's battles to-day. You little idiot, she'sfighting one in each of those pictures, from the one showing that girl'sface in the crowd, to the old chap with the fish-stall. She'll never diethat one. Because she's the spirit. It's the other one who's dead--andshe doesn't know it. But some day she'll find herself buried. And I wantto be there to shovel on the dirt. "

CHAPTER TWELVE

From the first of December the floor of the Haynes-Cooper mail roomlooked like the New York Stock Exchange, after a panic. The aisles weredrifts of paper against which a squad of boys struggled as vainly as agang of snow-shovelers against a blizzard. The guide talked in terms oftons of mail, instead of thousands. And smacked his lips after it. TheTen Thousand were working at night now, stopping for a hasty bite ofsupper at six, then back to desk, or bin or shelf until nine, so thatOklahoma and Minnesota might have its Christmas box in time. 

Fanny Brandeis, working under the light of her green-shaded desk lamp, wondered, a little bitterly, if Christmas would ever mean anything toher but pressure, weariness, work. She told herself that she would notthink of that Christmas of one year ago. One year! As she glanced aroundthe orderly little office, and out to the stock room beyond, then backto her desk again, she had an odd little feeling of unreality. Surely ithad been not one year, but many years--a lifetime--since she had elbowedher way up and down those packed aisles of the busy little store inWinnebago--she and that brisk, alert, courageous woman. 

"Mrs. Brandeis, lady wants to know if you can't put this blue satindress on the dark-haired doll, and the pink satin. . . . Well, I did tellher, but she said for me to ask you, anyway. "

"Mis' Brandeis, this man says he paid a dollar down on a go-cart lastmonth and he wants to pay the rest and take it home with him. "

And then the reassuring, authoritative voice, "Coming! I'll be rightthere. "

"Coming!" That had been her whole life. Service. And now she lay soquietly beneath the snow of the bitter northern winter. 

At that point Fanny's fist would come down hard on her desk, and thequick, indrawn breath of mutinous resentment would hiss through herteeth. 

She kept away from the downtown shops and their crowds. She scowled atsight of the holly and mistletoe wreaths, with their crimson streamers. There was something almost ludicrous in the way she shut her eyes to theholiday pageant all around her, and doubled and redoubled her work. Itseemed that she had a new scheme for her department every other day, andevery other one was a good one. 

Slosson had long ago abandoned the attempt to keep up with her. He didnot even resent her, as he had at first. "I'm a buyer, " he said, ratherpathetically, "and a pret-ty good one, too. But I'm not a genius, andI never will be. And I guess you've got to be a genius, these days, to keep up. It used to be enough for an infants' wear buyer toknow muslins, cottons, woolens, silks, and embroideries. But that'sold-fashioned now. These days, when you hire an office boy you don't askhim if he can read and write. You tell him he's got to have personality, magnetism, and imagination. Makes me sick!"

The Baby Book came off the presses and it was good. Even Slossonadmitted it, grudgingly. The cover was a sunny, breezy seashore picture, all blue and gold, with plump, dimpled youngsters playing, digging inthe sand, romping (and wearing our No. 13E1269, etc. , of course). Insidewere displayed the complete baby outfits, with a smiling mother, and achubby, crowing baby as a central picture, and each piece of each outfitseparately pictured. Just below this, the outfit number and price, and alist of the pieces that went to make it up. From the emergency outfit at$3. 98 to the outfit de luxe (for Haynes-Cooper patrons) at $28. 50, eachgroup was comprehensive, practical, complete. In the back of the bookwas a personal service plea. "Use us, " it said. "We are here to assistyou, not only in the matter of merchandise, but with information andadvice. Mothers in particular are in need of such service. This bookwill save you weariness and worry. Use us. "

Fanny surveyed the book with pardonable pride. But she was notsatisfied. "We lack style, " she said. "The practical garments are allright. But what we need is a little snap. That means cut and line. AndI'm going to New York to get it. " That had always been Slosson's work. 

She and Ella Monahan were to go to the eastern markets together. EllaMonahan went to New York regularly every three weeks. Fanny had neverbeen east of Chicago. She envied Ella her knowledge of the New Yorkwholesalers and manufacturers. Ella had dropped into Fanny's office fora brief moment. The two women had little in common, except their work, but they got on very well, and each found the other educating. 

"Seems to me you're putting an awful lot into this, " observed EllaMonahan, her wise eyes on Fanny's rather tense face. 

"You've got to, " replied Fanny, "to get anything out of it. "

"I guess you're right, " Ella agreed, and laughed a rueful little laugh. "I know I've given 'em everything I've got--and a few things I didn'tknow I had. It's a queer game--life. Now if my old father hadn't run atannery in Racine, and if I hadn't run around there all the day, so thatI got so the smell and feel of leather and hides were part of me, why, I'd never be buyer of gloves at Haynes-Cooper. And you----"

"Brandeis' Bazaar. " And was going on, when her office boy came in with aname. Ella rose to go, but Fanny stopped her. "Father Fitzpatrick! Bringhim right in! Miss Monahan, you've got to meet him. He's"--then, as thegreat frame of the handsome old priest filled the doorway--"he's justFather Fitzpatrick. Ella Monahan. "

The white-haired Irishman, and the white-haired Irish woman claspedhands. 

"And who are you, daughter, besides being Ella Monahan?"

"Buyer of gloves at Haynes-Cooper, Father. "

"You don't tell me, now!" He turned to Fanny, put his two big handson her shoulders, and swung her around to face the light. "Hm, " hemurmured, noncommittally, after that. 

"Hm--what?" demanded Fanny. "It sounds unflattering, whatever it means. ""Gloves!" repeated Father Fitzpatrick, unheeding her. "Well, now, whatd'you think of that! Millions of dollars' worth, I'll wager, in yourtime. "

"Two million and a half in my department last year, " replied Ella, without the least trace of boastfulness. One talked only in terms ofmillions at Haynes-Cooper's. 

"What an age it is! When two slips of women can earn salaries that wouldmake the old kings of Ireland look like beggars. " He twinkled upon theolder woman. "And what a feeling it must be--independence, and all. "

"I've earned my own living since I was seventeen, " said Ella Monahan. "I'd hate to tell you how long that is. " A murmur from the gallantIrishman. "Thanks, Father, for the compliment I see in your eyes. Butwhat I mean is this: You're right about independence. It is a grandthing. At first. But after a while it begins to pall on you. Don't askme why. I don't know. I only hope you won't think I'm a wicked womanwhen I say I could learn to love any man who'd hang a silver fox scarfand a string of pearls around my neck, and ask me if I didn't feel adraft. "

"Wicked! Not a bit of it, my girl. It's only natural, andcommendable--barrin' the pearls. "

"I'd forego them, " laughed Ella, and with a parting handshake left thetwo alone. 

Father Fitzpatrick looked after her. "A smart woman, that. " He took outhis watch, a fat silver one. "It's eleven-thirty. My train leaves atfour. Now, Fanny, if you'll get on your hat, and arrange to steal anhour or so from this Brobdingnagian place a grand word that, my girl, and nearer to swearing than any word I know--I'll take you to theBlackstone, no less, for lunch. How's that for a poor miserable oldpriest!"

"You dear, I couldn't think of it. Oh, yes, I could get away, but let'slunch right here at the plant, in the grill----"

"Never! I couldn't. Don't ask it of me. This place scares me. I came upin the elevator with a crowd and a guide, and he was juggling millions, that chap, the way a newsboy flips a cent. I'm but a poor parish priest, but I've got my pride. We'll go to the Blackstone, which I've passed, humbly, but never been in, with its rose silk shades and its windowboxes. And we'll be waited on by velvet-footed servitors, me girl. Getyour hat. "

Fanny, protesting, but laughing, too, got it. They took the L. Michiganavenue, as they approached it from Wabash, was wind-swept and bleak asonly Michigan avenue can be in December. They entered the warm radianceof the luxurious foyer with a little breathless rush, as wind-blownChicagoans generally do. The head waiter must have thought FatherFitzpatrick a cardinal, at least, for he seated them at a window tablethat looked out upon the icy street, with Grant Park, crusted with sootysnow, just across the way, and beyond that the I. C. Tracks and thegreat gray lake. The splendid room was all color, and perfume, andhumming conversation. A fountain tinkled in the center, and upon itswaters there floated lily pads and blossoms, weirdly rose, and mauve, and lavender. The tables were occupied by deliciously slim younggirls and very self-conscious college boys, home for the holidays, andmarcelled matrons, furred and aigretted. The pink in Fanny's cheeksdeepened. She loved luxury. She smiled and flashed at the handsome oldpriest opposite her. 

"You're a wastrel, " she said, "but isn't it nice!" And tasted the firstdelicious sip of soup. 

"It is. For a change. Extravagance is good for all of us, now and then. "He glanced leisurely about the brilliant room, then out to the street, bleakly windswept. He leaned back and drummed a bit with his fingers onthe satin-smooth cloth. "Now and then. Tell me, Fanny, what would yousay, off-hand, was the most interesting thing you see from here? Youused to have a trick of picking out what they call the human side. Yourmother had it, too. "

Fanny, smiling, glanced about the room, her eyes unconsciously followingthe track his had taken. About the room, and out, to the icy street. "The most interesting thing?" Back to the flower-scented room, with itsmusic, and tinkle, and animation. Out again, to the street. "You seethat man, standing at the curb, across the street. He's sort of crouchedagainst the lamp post. See him? Yes, there, just this side of that biggray car? He's all drawn up in a heap. You can feel him shivering. Helooks as if he were trying to crawl inside himself for warmth. Eversince we came in I've noticed him staring straight across at thesewindows where we're all sitting so grandly, lunching. I know what he'sthinking, don't you? And I wish I didn't feel so uncomfortable, knowingit. I wish we hadn't ordered lobster thermidor. I wish--there! thepoliceman's moving him on. "

Father Fitzpatrick reached over and took her hand, as it lay on thetable, in his great grasp. "Fanny, girl, you've told me what I wanted toknow. Haynes-Cooper or no Haynes-Cooper, millions or no millions, yourravines aren't choked up with ashes yet, my dear. Thank God. "

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From now on Fanny Brandeis' life became such a swift-moving thing thatyour trilogist would have regarded her with disgust. Here was no slowunfolding, petal by petal. Here were two processes going on, side byside. Fanny, the woman of business, flourished and throve like a weed, arrogantly flaunting its head above the timid, white flower that layclose to the soil, and crept, and spread, and multiplied. Between thetwo the fight went on silently. 

Fate, or Chance, or whatever it is that directs our movements, wasforever throwing tragic or comic little life-groups in her path, andthen, pointing an arresting finger at her, implying, "This means you!"Fanny stepped over these obstructions, or walked around them, or staredstraight through them. 

She had told herself that she would observe the first anniversary of hermother's death with none of those ancient customs by which your piousJew honors his dead. There would be no Yahrzeit light burning fortwenty-four hours. She would not go to Temple for Kaddish prayer. Butthe thing was too strong for her, too anciently inbred. Her ancestorswould have lighted a candle, or an oil lamp. Fanny, coming home at six, found herself turning on the shaded electric lamp in her hall. She wentthrough to the kitchen. 

"Princess, when you come in to-morrow morning you'll find a light in thehall. Don't turn it off until to-morrow evening at six. "

"All day long, Miss Fan! Mah sakes, wa' foh?"

"It's just a religious custom. "

"Didn't know yo' had no relijin, Miss Fan. Leastways, Ah nevah couldfiggah----"

"I haven't, " said Fanny, shortly. "Dinner ready soon, Princess? I'mstarved. "

She had entered a Jewish house of worship only once in this year. It wasthe stately, white-columned edifice on Grand Boulevard that housed thecongregation presided over by the famous Kirsch. She had heard of him, naturally. She was there out of curiosity, like any other newcomer toChicago. The beauty of the auditorium enchanted her--a magnificentlyproportioned room, and restful without being in the least gloomy. Then she had been interested in the congregation as it rustled in. Shethought she had never seen so many modishly gowned women in one roomin all her life. The men were sleekly broadclothed, but they lacked thewell-dressed air, somehow. The women were slimly elegant in tailor suitsand furs. They all looked as if they had been turned out by the sametailor. An artist, in his line, but of limited imagination. Dr. Kirsch, sociologist and savant, aquiline, semi-bald, grimly satiric, sat inhis splendid, high-backed chair, surveying his silken flock throughhalf-closed lids. He looked tired, and rather ill, Fanny thought, butdistinctly a personage. She wondered if he held them or they him. Thatrecalled to her the little Winnebago Temple and Rabbi Thalmann. She remembered the frequent rudeness and open inattention of thatcongregation. No doubt Mrs. Nathan Pereles had her counterpart here, andthe hypocritical Bella Weinberg, too, and the giggling Aarons girls, and old Ben Reitman. Here Dr. Kirsch had risen, and, coming forward, hadpaused to lean over his desk and, with an awful geniality, had lookeddown upon two rustling, exquisitely gowned late-comers. They sank intotheir seats, cowed. Fanny grinned. He began his lecture somethingabout modern politics. Fanny was fascinated and resentful by turns. Hisbrilliant satire probed, cut, jabbed like a surgeon's scalpel; or herailed, scolded, snarled, like a dyspeptic schoolmaster. Often he wasin wretched taste. He mimicked, postured, sneered. But he had thismillionaire congregation of his in hand. Fanny found herself smilingup at him, delightedly. Perhaps this wasn't religion, as she had beentaught to look upon it, but it certainly was tonic. She told herselfthat she would have come to the same conclusion if Kirsch had occupied aMethodist pulpit. 

There were no Kaddish prayers in Kirsch's Temple. On the Fridayfollowing the first anniversary of Molly Brandeis's death Fanny did notgo home after working hours, but took a bite of supper in a neighborhoodrestaurant. Then she found her way to one of the orthodox Russian Jewishsynagogues on the west side. It was a dim, odorous, bare little place, this house of worship. Fanny had never seen one like it before. She washerded up in the gallery, where the women sat. And when the patriarchalrabbi began to intone the prayer for the dead Fanny threw the galleryinto wild panic by rising for it--a thing that no woman is allowed todo in an orthodox Jewish church. She stood, calmly, though the beshawledwomen to right and left of her yanked at her coat. 

In January Fanny discovered New York. She went as selector for herdepartment. Hereafter Slosson would do only the actual buying. Styles, prices, and materials would be decided by her. Ella Monahan accompaniedher, it being the time for her monthly trip. Fanny openly envied her herknowledge of New York's wholesale district. Ella offered to help her. 

"No, " Fanny had replied, "I think not, thanks. You've your own work. Andbesides I know pretty well what I want, and where to go to get it. It'smaking them give it to me that will be hard. "

They went to the same hotel, and took connecting rooms. Each went herown way, not seeing the other from morning until night, but they oftenfound kimonoed comfort in each other's presence. 

Fanny had spent weeks outlining her plan of attack. She had determinedto retain the cheap grades, but to add a finer line as well. Sherecalled those lace-bedecked bundles that the farmer women and millhands had born so tenderly in their arms. Here was one direction inwhich they allowed extravagance free rein. As a canny business woman, she would trade on her knowledge of their weakness. 

At Haynes-Cooper order is never a thing to be despised by a wholesaler. Fanny, knowing this, had made up her mind to go straight to Horn &Udell. Now, Horn & Udell are responsible for the bloomers your smalldaughter wears under her play frock, in place of the troublesome andextravagant petticoat of the old days. It was they who introducedsmocked pinafores to you; and those modish patent-leather belts forchildren at which your grandmothers would have raised horrified hands. They taught you that an inch of hand embroidery is worth a yard of cheaplace. And as for style, cut, line--you can tell a Horn & Udell childfrom among a flock of thirty. 

Fanny, entering their office, felt much as Molly Brandeis had felt thatJanuary many, many years before, when she had made that first terrifyingtrip to the Chicago market. The engagement had been made days before. Fanny never knew the shock that her youthfully expectant face gave oldSid Udell. He turned from his desk to greet her, his polite smile ofgreeting giving way to a look of bewilderment. 

"But you are not the buyer, are you, Miss Brandeis?"

"No, Mr. Slosson buys. "

"I thought so. "

"But I select for my entire department. I decide on our styles, materials, and prices, six months in advance. Then Mr. Slosson does theactual bulk buying. "

"Something new-fangled?" inquired Sid Udell. "Of course, we've neversold much to you people. Our stuff is----"

"Yes, I know. But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"

"Our class of goods isn't exactly suited to your wants. "

"Yes, it is. Exactly. That's why I'm here. We'll be doing a business ofa million and a quarter in my department in another two years. No firm, not even Horn & Udell, can afford to ignore an account like that. "

Sid Udell smiled a little. "You've made up your mind to that million anda quarter, young lady?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I've dealt with buyers for a quarter of a century or more. AndI'd say that you're going to get it. "

Whereupon Fanny began to talk. Ten minutes later Udell interrupted herto summon Horn, whose domain was the factory. Horn came, was introduced, looked doubtful. Fanny had statistics. Fanny had arguments. She haddetermination. "And what we want, " she went on, in her quiet, assuredway, "is style. The Horn & Udell clothes have chic. Now, material can'tbe imitated successfully, but style can. Our goods lack just that. I could copy any model you have, turn the idea over to a cheapmanufacturer, and get a million just like it, at one-fifth the price. That isn't a threat. It's just a business statement that you know to betrue. I can sketch from memory anything I've seen once. What I want toknow is this: Will you make it necessary for me to do that, or will youundertake to furnish us with cheaper copies of your high-priced designs?We could use your entire output. I know the small-town woman of thepoorer class, and I know she'll wear a shawl in order to give her childa cloth coat with fancy buttons and a velvet collar. "

And Horn & Udell, whose attitude at first had been that of two seasonedbusiness men dealing with a precocious child, found themselves quotingprices to her, shipments, materials, quality, quantities. Then came thequestion of time. 

"We'll get out a special catalogue for the summer, " Fanny said. "A smallone, to start them our way. Then the big Fall catalogue will contain theentire line. "

"That doesn't give us time!" exclaimed both men, in a breath. 

"But you must manage, somehow. Can't you speed up the workroom? Put onextra hands? It's worth it. "

They might, under normal conditions. But there was this strike-talk, itsugly head bobbing up in a hundred places. And their goods were the kindthat required high-class workers. Their girls earned all the way fromtwelve to twenty-five dollars. But Fanny knew she had driven homethe entering wedge. She left them after making an engagement forthe following day. The Horn & Udell factory was in New York's newerloft-building section, around Madison, Fifth avenue, and the Thirties. Her hotel was very near. She walked up Fifth avenue a little way, and asshe walked she wondered why she did not feel more elated. Her day's workhad exceeded her expectations. It was a brilliant January afternoon, with a snap in the air that was almost western. Fifth avenue flowed up, flowed down, and Fanny fought the impulse to stare after every second orthird woman she passed. They were so invariably well-dressed. There wasnone of the occasional shabbiness or dowdiness of Michigan Avenue. Everywoman seemed to have emerged fresh from the hands of masseuse and maid. Their hair was coiffed to suit the angle of the hat, and the hat hadbeen chosen to enhance the contour of the head, and the head was carriedwith regard for the dark furs that encircled the throat. They wereamazingly well shod. Their white gloves were white. (A fact remarkableto any soot-haunted Chicagoan. ) Their coloring rivaled the rose leaf. And nobody's nose was red. 

"Goodness knows I've never pretended to be a beauty, " Fanny said thatevening, in conversation with Ella Monahan. "But I've always thoughtI had my good points. By the time I'd reached Forty-second street Iwouldn't have given two cents for my chances of winning a cave man on adesert island. "

She made up her mind that she would go back to the hotel, get a thickcoat, and ride outside one of those fascinating Fifth avenue 'buses. Itstruck her as an ideal way to see this amazing street. She was back ather hotel in ten minutes. Ella had not yet come in. Their rooms were onthe tenth floor. Fanny got her coat, peered at her own reflection inthe mirror, sighed, shook her head, and was off down the hall toward theelevators. The great hall window looked toward Fifth avenue, but betweenit and the avenue rose a yellow-brick building that housed tier ontier of manufacturing lofts. Cloaks, suits, blouses, petticoats, hats, dresses--it was just such a building as Fanny had come from when sheleft the offices of Horn & Udell. It might be their very building, forall she knew. She looked straight into its windows as she stood waitingfor the lift. And window after window showed women, sewing. They weresewing at machines, and at hand-work, but not as women are accustomedto sew, with leisurely stitches, stopping to pat a seam here, to runa calculating eye along hem or ruffle. It was a dreadful, mechanicalmotion, that sewing, a machine-like, relentless motion, with no waste init, no pause. Fanny's mind leaped back to Winnebago, with its pleasantporches on which leisurely women sat stitching peacefully at a fineseam. 

What was it she had said to Udell? "Can't you speed up the workroom? It'sworth it. "

Fanny turned abruptly from the window as the door of the bronze andmirrored lift opened for her. She walked over to Fifth avenue again andup to Forty-fifth street. Then she scrambled up the spiral stairs of aWashington Square 'bus. The air was crisp, clear, intoxicating. To herChicago eyes the buildings, the streets, the very sky looked startlinglyfresh and new-washed. As the 'bus lurched down Fifth avenue she leanedover the railing to stare, fascinated, at the colorful, shifting, brilliant panorama of the most amazing street in the world. Block afterblock, as far as the eye could see, the gorgeous procession moved up, moved down, and the great, gleaming motor cars crept, and crawled, andwrithed in and out, like nothing so much as swollen angle worms in afishing can, Fanny thought. Her eye was caught by one limousine thatstood out, even in that crush of magnificence. It was all black, asthough scorning to attract the eye with vulgar color, and it was linedwith white. Fanny thought it looked very much like Siegel & Cowan'shearse, back in Winnebago. In it sat a woman, all furs, and orchids, and complexion. She was holding up to the window a little dog with awrinkled and weary face, like that of an old, old man. He was stickinghis little evil, eager red tongue out at the world. And he wore a verysmart and woolly white sweater, of the imported kind--with a monogramdone in black. 

The traffic policeman put up his hand. The 'bus rumbled on down thestreet. Names that had always been remotely mythical to her now met hereye and became realities. Maillard's. And that great red stonecastle was the Waldorf. Almost historic, and it looked newer than thesmoke-grimed Blackstone. And straight ahead--why, that must be theFlatiron building! It loomed up like the giant prow of an unimaginableship. Brentano's. The Holland House. Madison Square. Why there never wasanything so terrifying, and beautiful, and palpitating, and exquisiteas this Fifth avenue in the late winter afternoon, with the sky ahead arosy mist, and the golden lights just beginning to spangle the gray. AtMadison Square she decided to walk. She negotiated the 'bus steps withsurprising skill for a novice, and scurried along the perilous crossingto the opposite side. She entered Madison Square. But why hadn't O. Henry emphasized its beauty, instead of its squalor? It lay, a purplepool of shadow, surrounded by the great, gleaming, many-windowed officebuildings, like an amethyst sunk in a circle of diamonds. "It's afairyland!" Fanny told herself. "Who'd have thought a city could be sobeautiful!"

And then, at her elbow, a voice said, "Oh, lady, for the lova God!"She turned with a jerk and looked up into the unshaven face of a great, blue-eyed giant who pulled off his cap and stood twisting it in hisswollen blue fingers. "Lady, I'm cold. I'm hungry. I been sittin' herehours. "

Fanny clutched her bag a little fearfully. She looked at his huge frame. "Why don't you work?"

"Work!" He laughed. "There ain't any. Looka this!" He turned up hisfoot, and you saw the bare sole, blackened and horrible, and fringed, comically, by the tattered leather upper. 

"Oh--my dear!" said Fanny. And at that the man began to cry, weakly, sickeningly, like a little boy. 

"Don't do that! Don't! Here. " She was emptying her purse, and somethinginside her was saying, "You fool, he's only a professional beggar. "

And then the man wiped his face with his cap, and swallowed hard, andsaid, "I don't want all you got. I ain't holdin' you up. Just gimmethat. I been sittin' here, on that bench, lookin' at that sign acrossthe street. Over there. It says, `EAT. ' It goes off an' on. Seemed likeit was drivin' me crazy. "

Fanny thrust a crumpled five-dollar bill into his hand. And was off. Shefairly flew along, so that it was not until she had reached Thirty-thirdstreet that she said aloud, as was her way when moved, "I don't care. Don't blame me. It was that miserable little beast of a dog in the whitesweater that did it. "

It was almost seven when she reached her room. A maid, in neat black andwhite, was just coming out with an armful of towels. 

"I just brought you a couple of extra towels. We were short thismorning, " she said. 

The room was warm, and quiet, and bright. In her bathroom, thatglistened with blue and white tiling, were those redundant towels. Fannystood in the doorway and counted them, whimsically. Four great fuzzybath towels. Eight glistening hand towels. A blue and white bath rughung at the side of the tub. Her telephone rang. It was Ella. 

"Where in the world have you been, child? I was worried about you. Ithought you were lost in the streets of New York. "

"I took a 'bus ride, " Fanny explained. 

"See anything of New York?"

"I saw all of it, " replied Fanny. Ella laughed at that, but Fanny's facewas serious. 

"How did you make out at Horn & Udell's? Never mind, I'm coming in for aminute; can I?"

"Please do. I need you. "

A moment later Ella bounced in, fresh as to blouse, pink as to cheeks, her whole appearance a testimony to the revivifying effects of a warmbath, a brief nap, clean clothes. 

"Dear child, you look tired. I'm not going to stay. You get dressed andI'll meet you for dinner. Or do you want yours up here?"

"Oh, no!"

"'Phone me when you're dressed. But tell me, isn't it a wonder, thistown? I'll never forget my first trip here. I spent one whole eveningstanding in front of the mirror trying to make those little spit-curlsthe women were wearing then. I'd seen 'em on Fifth avenue, and it seemedI'd die if I couldn't have 'em, too. And I dabbed on rouge, and touchedup my eyebrows. I don't know. It's a kind of a crazy feeling gets you. The minute I got on the train for Chicago I washed my face and took myhair down and did it plain again. "

"Why, that's the way I felt!" laughed Fanny. "I didn't care anythingabout infants' wear, or Haynes-Cooper, or anything. I just wanted to bebeautiful, as they all were. "

"Sure! It gets us all!"

Fanny twisted her hair into the relentless knob women assume preparatoryto bathing. "It seems to me you have to come from Winnebago, orthereabouts, to get New York--really get it, I mean. "

"That's so, " agreed Ella. "There's a man on the New York Star who writesa column every day that everybody reads. If he isn't a small-town manthen we're both wrong. "

Fanny, bathward bound, turned to stare at Ella. "A column about what?"

"Oh, everything. New York, mostly. Say, it's the humanest stuff. Hesays the kind of thing we'd all say, if we knew how. Reading him is likegetting a letter from home. I'll bet he went to a country school andwore his mittens sewed to a piece of tape that ran through his coatsleeves. "

"You're right, " said Fanny; "he did. That man's from Winnebago, Wisconsin. "

"No!"

"Yes. "

"Do you mean you know him? Honestly? What's he like?"

But Fanny had vanished. "I'm a tired business woman, " she called, abovethe splashing that followed, "and I won't converse until I'm fed. "

"But how about Horn & Udell?" demanded Ella, her mouth against thecrack. 

"Practically mine, " boasted Fanny. 

"You mean--landed!"

"Well, hooked, at any rate, and putting up a very poor struggle. "

"Why, you clever little divil, you! You'll be making me look like astock girl next. "

Fanny did not telephone Heyl until the day she left New York. She hadtold herself she would not telephone him at all. He had sent her his NewYork address and telephone number months before, after that Sundayat the dunes. Ella Monahan had finished her work and had gone back toChicago four days before Fanny was ready to leave. In those four daysFanny had scoured the city from the Palisades to Pell street. I don'tknow how she found her way about. It was a sort of instinct with her. She seemed to scent the picturesque. She never for a moment neglectedher work. But she had found it was often impossible to see these NewYork business men until ten--sometimes eleven--o'clock. She awoke atseven, a habit formed in her Winnebago days. Eight-thirty one morningfound her staring up at the dim vastness of the dome of the cathedral ofSt. John the Divine. The great gray pile, mountainous, almost ominous, looms up in the midst of the dingy commonplaceness of Amsterdam avenueand 110th street. New Yorkers do not know this, or if they know it, thefact does not interest them. New Yorkers do not go to stare up into themurky shadows of this glorious edifice. They would if it were situatein Rome. Bare, crude, unfinished, chaotic, it gives rich promise ofmagnificent fulfillment. In an age when great structures are thrown upto-day, to be torn down to-morrow, this slow-moving giant is at once areproach and an example. Twenty-five years in building, twenty-fivemore for completion, it has elbowed its way, stone by stone, into suchcompany as St. Peter's at Rome, and the marvel at Milan. Fanny found herway down the crude cinder paths that made an alley-like approach tothe cathedral. She entered at the side door that one found by followingarrows posted on the rough wooden fence. Once inside she stood a moment, awed by the immensity of the half-finished nave. As she stood there, hands clasped, her face turned raptly up to where the massive granitecolumns reared their height to frame the choir, she was, for the moment, as devout as any Episcopalian whose money had helped make the greatbuilding. Not only devout, but prayerful, ecstatic. That was partly dueto the effect of the pillars, the lights, the tapestries, the great, unfinished chunks of stone that loomed out from the side walls, and thepurple shadow cast by the window above the chapels at the far end; andpartly to the actress in her that responded magically to any mood, andalways to surroundings. Later she walked softly down the deserted nave, past the choir, to the cluster of chapels, set like gems at one end, and running from north to south, in a semi-circle. A placard outside onesaid, "St. Saviour's chapel. For those who wish to rest and pray. " Allwhite marble, this little nook, gleaming softly in the gray half-light. Fanny entered, and sat down. She was quite alone. The roar and crashof the Eighth avenue L, the Amsterdam cars, the motors drumming upMorningside hill, were softened here to a soothing hum. 

For those who wish to rest and pray. 

Fanny Brandeis had neither rested nor prayed since that hideous day whenshe had hurled her prayer of defiance at Him. But something within hernow began a groping for words; for words that should follow an ancientplea beginning, "O God of my Fathers----" But at that the picture of theroom came back to her mental vision--the room so quiet except for thebreathing of the woman on the bed; the woman with the tolerant, humorousmouth, and the straight, clever nose, and the softly bright brown eyes, all so strangely pinched and shrunken-looking now----

Fanny got to her feet, with a noisy scraping of the chair on the stonefloor. The vague, half-formed prayer died at birth. She found her wayout of the dim, quiet little chapel, up the long aisle and out the greatdoor. She shivered a little in the cold of the early January morning asshe hurried toward the Broadway subway. 

At nine-thirty she was standing at a counter in the infants' wearsection at Best's, making mental notes while the unsuspecting saleswomanshowed her how the pink ribbon in this year's models was broughtunder the beading, French fashion, instead of weaving through it, as heretofore. At ten-thirty she was saying to Sid Udell, "I thinka written contract is always best. Then we'll all know just where westand. Mr. Fenger will be on next week to arrange the details, but justnow a very brief written understanding to show him on my return woulddo. "

And she got it, and tucked it away in her bag, in triumph. 

She tried to leave New York without talking to Heyl, but some quiet, insistent force impelled her to act contrary to her resolution. It was, after all, the urge of the stronger wish against the weaker. 

When he heard her voice over the telephone Heyl did not say, "Who isthis?" Neither did he put those inevitable questions of the dweller tothe transient, "Where are you? How long have you been here?" What hesaid was, "How're you going to avoid dining with me to-night?"

To which Fanny replied, promptly, "By taking the Twentieth Century backto Chicago to-day. "

A little silence. A hurt silence. Then, "When they get the TwentiethCentury habit they're as good as lost. How's the infants' wear business, Fanny?"

"Booming, thank you. I want to tell you I've read the column every day. It's wonderful stuff. "

"It's a wonderful job. I'm a lucky boy. I'm doing the thing I'd ratherdo than anything else in the world. There are mighty few who can saythat. " There was another silence, awkward, heavy. Then, "Fanny, you'renot really leaving to-day?"

"I'll be in Chicago to-morrow, barring wrecks. "

"You might have let me show you our more or less fair city. "

"I've shown it to myself. I've seen Riverside Drive at sunset, and atnight. That alone would have been enough. But I've seen Fulton market, too, and the Grand street stalls, and Washington Square, and CentralPark, and Lady Duff-Gordon's inner showroom, and the Night Court, andthe Grand Central subway horror at six p. M. , and the gambling onthe Curb, and the bench sleepers in Madison Square--Oh, Clancy, themisery----"

"Heh, wait a minute! All this, alone?"

"Yes. And one more thing. I've landed Horn & Udell, which means nothingto you, but to me it means that by Spring my department will be a creditto its stepmother; a real success. "

"I knew it would be a success. So did you. Anything you might attemptwould be successful. You'd have made a successful lawyer, or cook, oractress, or hydraulic engineer, because you couldn't do a thing badly. It isn't in you. You're a superlative sort of person. But that's noreason for being any of those things. If you won't admit a debt tohumanity, surely you'll acknowledge you've an obligation to yourself. "

"Preaching again. Good-by. "

"Fanny, you're afraid to see me. "

"Don't be ridiculous. Why should I be?"

"Because I say aloud the things you daren't let yourself think. If Iwere to promise not to talk about anything but flannel bands----"

"Will you promise?"

"No. But I'm going to meet you at the clock at the Grand Central Stationfifteen minutes before train time. I don't care if every infants' wearmanufacturer in New York had a prior claim on your time. You may as wellbe there, because if you're not I'll get on the train and stay on as faras Albany. Take your choice. "

He was there before her. Fanny, following the wake of a redcap, pickedhim at once from among the crowd of clock-waiters. He saw her at thesame time, and started forward with that singularly lithe, springy stepwhich was, after all, just the result of perfectly trained muscles incoordination. He was wearing New York clothes--the right kind, Fannynoted. 

Their hands met. "How well you look, " said Fanny, rather lamely. 

"It's the clothes, " said Heyl, and began to revolve slowly, coyly, hands out, palms down, eyelids drooping, in delicious imitation of thoseladies whose business it is to revolve thus for fashion. 

"Clancy, you idiot! All these people! Stop it!"

"But get the grace! Get the easy English hang, at once so loose and soclinging. "

Fanny grinned, appreciatively, and led the way through the gate to thetrain. She was surprisingly glad to be with him again. On discoveringthat, she began to talk rapidly, and about him. 

"Tell me, how do you manage to keep that fresh viewpoint? Everybody elsewho comes to New York to write loses his identity. The city swallows himup. I mean by that, that things seem to strike you as freshly as theydid when you first came. I remember you wrote me an amazing letter. "

"For one thing, I'll never be anything but a foreigner in New York. I'll never quite believe Broadway. I'll never cease to marvel at Fifthavenue, and Cooper Union, and the Bronx. The time may come when I cantake the subway for granted, but don't ask it of me just yet. "

"But the other writers--and all those people who live down in WashingtonSquare?"

"I never see them. It's sure death. Those Greenwichers are always takingout their own feelings and analyzing them, and pawing them over, and passing them around. When they get through with them they're sothumb-marked and greasy that no one else wants them. They don't getenough golf, those Greenwichers. They don't get enough tennis. Theydon't get enough walking in the open places. Gosh, no! I know betterthan to fall for that kind of thing. They spend hours talking to eachother, in dim-lighted attics, about Souls, and Society, and the Joyof Life, and the Greater Good. And they know all about each other'sinsides. They talk themselves out, and there's nothing left to writeabout. A little of that kind of thing purges and cleanses. Too much ofit poisons, and clogs. No, ma'am! When I want to talk I go down and chinwith the foreman of our composing room. There's a chap that has whatI call conversation. A philosopher, and knows everything in the world. Composing room foremen always are and do. Now, that's all of that. Howabout Fanny Brandeis? Any sketches? Come on. Confess. Grand street, anyway. "

"I haven't touched a pencil, except to add up a column of figures orcopy an order, since last September, when you were so sure I couldn'tstop. "

"You've done a thousand in your head. And if you haven't done one onpaper so much the better. You'll jam them back, and stifle them, andscrew the cover down tight on every natural impulse, and then, some day, the cover will blow off with a loud report. You can't kill that kindof thing, Fanny. It would have to be a wholesale massacre of all thecenturies behind you. I don't so much mind your being disloyal to yourtribe, or race, or whatever you want to call it. But you've turned yourback on yourself; you've got an obligation to humanity, and I'll nagyou till you pay it. I don't care if I lose you, so long as you findyourself. The thing you've got isn't merely racial. God, no! It'suniversal. And you owe it to the world. Pay up, Fanny! Pay up!"

"Look here!" began Fanny, her voice low with anger; "the last time I sawyou I said I'd never again put myself in a position to be lectured byyou, like a schoolgirl. I mean it, this time. If you have anythingelse to say to me, say it now. The train leaves"--she glanced ather wrist--"in two minutes, thank Heaven, and this will be your lastchance. "

"All right, " said Heyl. "I have got something to say. Do you wearhatpins?"

"Hatpins!" blankly. "Not with this small hat, but what----"

"That means you're defenseless. If you're going to prowl the streets ofChicago alone get this: If you double your fist this way, and tuck yourthumb alongside, like that, and aim for this spot right here, about twoinches this side of the chin, bringing your arm back, and up, quickly, like a piston, the person you hit will go down, limp. There's a nerveright here that communicates with the brain. That blow makes yousee stars, bright lights, and fancy colors. They use it in the comicpapers. "

"You ARE crazy, " said Fanny, as though at last assured of along-suspected truth. The train began to move, almost imperceptibly. "Run!" she cried. 

Heyl sped up the aisle. At the door he turned. "It's called anuppercut, " he shouted to the amazement of the other passengers. Andleaped from the train. 

Fanny sank into her seat, weakly. Then she began to laugh, and there wasa dash of hysteria in it. He had left a paper on the car seat. It wasthe Star. Fanny crumpled it, childishly, and kicked it under the seat. She took off her hat, arranged her belongings, and sat back with eyesclosed. After a few moments she opened them, fished about under the seatfor the crumpled copy of the Star, and read it, turning at once to hiscolumn. She thought it was a very unpretentious thing, that column, andyet so full of insight, and sagacity, and whimsical humor. Not a guffawin it, but a smile in every fifth line. She wondered if those yearsof illness, and loneliness, with weeks of reading, and tramping, andclimbing in the Colorado mountains had kept him strangely young, or madehim strangely old. 

She welcomed the hours that lay between New York and Chicago. They wouldgive her an opportunity to digest the events of the past ten days. In her systematic mind she began to range them in the order of theirimportance. Horn & Udell came first, of course, and then the line ofmaternity dresses she had selected to take the place of the hideousmodels carried under Slosson's regime. And then the slip-over pinafores. But somehow her thoughts became jumbled here, so that faces instead ofgarments filled her mind's eye. Again and again there swam into her kenthe face of that woman of fifty, in decent widow's weeds, who had stoodthere in the Night Court, charged with drunkenness on the streets. Andthe man with the frost-bitten fingers in Madison Square. And the dog inthe sweater. And the feverish concentration of the piece-work sewers inthe window of the loft building. 

She gave it up, selected a magazine, and decided to go in to lunch. 

There was nothing spectacular about the welcome she got on her returnto the office after this first trip. A firm that counts its employees bythe thousands, and its profits in tens of millions, cannot be expectedto draw up formal resolutions of thanks when a heretofore flabbydepartment begins to show signs of red blood. 

Ella Monahan said, "They'll make light of it--all but Fenger. That'stheir way. "

Slosson drummed with his fingers all the time she was giving him theresult of her work in terms of style, material, quantity, time, andprice. When she had finished he said, "Well, all I can say is we seemto be going out of the mail order business and into the imported noveltyline, de luxe. I suppose by next Christmas the grocery department willbe putting in artichoke hearts, and truffles and French champagne by thekeg for community orders. "

To which Fanny had returned, sweetly, "If Oregon and Wyoming show anydesire for artichokes and champagne I don't see why we shouldn't. "

Fenger, strangely enough, said little. He was apt to be rather curtthese days, and almost irritable. Fanny attributed it to the reactionfollowing the strain of the Christmas rush. 

One did not approach Fenger's office except by appointment. Fanny sentword to him of her return. For two days she heard nothing from him. Thenthe voice of the snuff-brown secretary summoned her. She did not haveto wait this time, but passed directly through the big bright outer roominto the smaller room. The Power House, Fanny called it. 

Fenger was facing the door. "Missed you, " he said. 

"You must have, " Fanny laughed, "with only nine thousand nine hundredand ninety-nine to look after. "

"You look as if you'd been on a vacation, instead of a test trip. "

"So I have. Why didn't you warn me that business, as transacted in NewYork, is a series of social rites? I didn't have enough white kid glovesto go round. No one will talk business in an office. I don't see whatthey use offices for, except as places in which to receive their mail. You utter the word `Business, ' and the other person immediately says, `Lunch. ' No wholesaler seems able to quote you his prices until hehas been sustained by half a dozen Cape Cods. I don't want to see arestaurant or a rose silk shade for weeks. "

Fenger tapped the little pile of papers on his desk. "I've read yourreports. If you can do that on lunches, I'd like to see what you couldput over in a series of dinners. "

"Heaven forbid, " said Fanny, fervently. Then, for a very concentratedfifteen minutes they went over the reports together. Fanny's voice grewdry and lifeless as she went into figures. 

"You don't sound particularly enthusiastic, " Fenger said, when they hadfinished, "considering that you've accomplished what you set out to do. "

"That's just it, " quickly. "I like the uncertainty. It was interestingto deal directly with those people, to stack one's arguments, andpersonality, and mentality and power over theirs, until they had to giveway. But after that! Well, you can't expect me to be vitally interestedin gross lots, and carloads and dating. "

"It's part of business. "

"It's the part I hate. "

Fenger stacked the papers neatly. "You came in June, didn't you?"

"Yes. "

"It has been a remarkable eight-months' record, even at Haynes-Cooper's, where records are the rule. Have you been through the plant since thetime you first went through?"

"Through it! Goodness, no! It would take a day. "

"Then I wish you'd take it. I like to have the heads of departmentsgo through the plant at least twice a year. You'll find the fourteenthfloor has been cleared and is being used entirely by the selectors. Themanufacturers' samples are spread on the tables in the various sections. You'll find your place ready for you. You'll be amused at Daly'ssection. He took your suggestion about trying the blouses on live modelsinstead of selecting them as he used to. You remember you said that onecould tell about the lines and style of a dress merely by looking at it, but that a blouse is just a limp rag until it's on. "

"It's true of the flimsy Georgette things women want now. They may belovely in the box and hideously unbecoming when worn. If Daly's going infor the higher grade stuff he can't risk choosing unbecoming models. "

"Wait till you see him!" smiled Fenger, "sitting there like a sultanwhile the pinks and blues, and whites and plaids parade before him. " Heturned to his desk again. "That's all, Miss Brandeis. Thank you. " Then, at a sudden thought. "Do you know that all your suggestions have beenhuman suggestions? I mean they all have had to do with people. Tell me, how do you happen to have learned so much about what people feel andthink, in such a short time?"

The thing that Clarence Heyl had said flashed through her mind, and shewas startled to find herself quoting it. "It hasn't been a short time, "she said. 

"It took a thousand years. " And left Fenger staring, puzzled. 

She took next morning for her tour of the plant as Fenger had suggested. She went through it, not as the startled, wide-eyed girl of eight monthsbefore had gone, but critically, and with a little unconscious air ofauthority. For, this organization, vast though it was, actually showedher imprint. She could have put her finger on this spot, and that, saying, "Here is the mark of my personality. " And she thought, as shepassed from department to department, "Ten thousand a year, if you keepon as you've started. " Up one aisle and down the next. Bundles, bundles, bundles. And everywhere you saw the yellow order-slips. In the hands ofthe stock boys whizzing by on roller skates; in the filing department;in the traffic department. The very air seemed jaundiced with thoseclouds of yellow order-slips. She stopped a moment, fascinated as alwaysbefore the main spiral gravity chute down which the bundles--hundredsof them, thousands of them daily--chased each other to--to what? Fannyasked herself. She knew, vaguely, that hands caught these bundleshalfway, and redirected them toward the proper channel, where they wereassembled and made ready for shipping or mailing. She turned to a stockboy. 

"Where does this empty?" she asked. 

"Floor below, " said the boy, "on the platform. "

Fanny walked down a flight of iron stairs, and around to face the spiralchute again. In front of the chute, and connected with it by a greatmetal lip, was a platform perhaps twelve feet above the floor andlooking very much like the pilot's deck of a ship. A little flight ofsteps led up to it--very steep steps, that trembled a little under arepetition of shocks that came from above. Fanny climbed them warily, gained the top, and found herself standing next to the girl whose facehad gleamed out at her from among those thousands in the crowd pouringout of the plant. The girl glanced up at Fanny for a second--no, for thefraction of a second. Her job was the kind that permitted no more thanthat. Fanny watched her for one breathless moment. In that moment sheunderstood the look that had been stamped on the girl's face that night;the look that had cried: "Release!" For this platform, shaking under thethud of bundles, bundles, bundles, was the stomach of the Haynes-Cooperplant. Sixty per cent of the forty-five thousand daily orders passedthrough the hands of this girl and her assistants. Down the chutesswished the bundles, stamped with their section mark, and here they werecaught deftly and hurled into one of the dozen conveyers that flowedout from this main stream. The wrong bundle into the wrong conveyer?Confusion in the shipping room. It only took a glance of the eye and amotion of the arms. But that glance and that motion had been boiled downto the very concentrated essence of economy. They seemed to be workingwith fury, but then, so does a pile-driver until you get the simplicityof it. 

Fanny bent over the girl (it was a noisy corner) and put a question. Thegirl did not pause in her work as she answered it. She caught a bundlewith one hand, hurled one into a conveyer with the other. 

"Seven a week, " she said. And deftly caught the next slithering bundle. 

Fanny watched her for another moment. Then she turned and went down thesteep stairs. 

"None of your business, " she said to herself, and continued her tour. "None of your business. " She went up to the new selectors' floor, andfound the plan running as smoothly as if it had been part of the plant'ssystem for years. The elevator whisked her up to the top floor, whereshe met the plant's latest practical fad, the new textile chemist--acharming youth, disguised in bone-rimmed glasses, who did the honors ofhis little laboratory with all the manner of a Harvard host. This wasthe fusing oven for silks. Here was the drying oven. This delicate scaleweighed every ounce of the cloth swatches that came in for inspection, to get the percentage of wool and cotton. Not a chance for themanufacturer to slip shoddy into his goods, now. 

"Mm, " said Fanny, politely. She hated complicated processes that had todo with scales, and weights, and pounds, and acids. She crossed overto the Administration Building, and stopped at the door marked, "Mrs. Knowles. " If you had been an employee of the Haynes-Cooper company, andhad been asked to define Mrs. Knowles's position the chances are thatyou would have found yourself floundering, wordless. Haynes-Cooperwas reluctant to acknowledge the need of Mrs. Knowles. Still, when youemploy ten thousand people, and more than half of these are girls, andfifty per cent of these girls are unskilled, ignorant, and terriblyhuman you find that a Mrs. Knowles saves the equivalent of ten times hersalary in wear and tear and general prevention. She could have told youtragic stories, could Mrs. Knowles, and sordid stories, and comic too;she knew how to deal with terror, and shame, and stubborn silence, andhopeless misery. Gray-haired and motherly? Not at all. An astonishinglyyoung, pleasingly plumpish woman, with nothing remarkable about herexcept a certain splendid calm. Four years out of Vassar, and alreadyshe had learned that if you fold your hands in your lap and wait, quietly, asking no questions, almost any one will tell you almostanything. 

"Hello!" called Fanny. "How are our morals this morning?"

"Going up!" answered Esther Knowles, "considering that it's Tuesday. Come in. How's the infant prodigy, I lunched with Ella Monahan, and shetold me your first New York trip was a whirlwind. Congratulations!"

"Thanks. I can't stop. I haven't touched my desk to-day. I just wantto ask you if you know the name of that girl who has charge of the mainchute in the merchandise building. "

"Good Lord, child! There are thousands of girls. "

"But this one's rather special. She is awfully pretty, and ratherdifferent looking. Exquisite coloring, a discontented expression, and ablouse that's too low in the neck. "

"Which might be a description of Fanny Brandeis herself, barring theblouse, " laughed Mrs. Knowles. Then, at the startled look in Fanny'sface, "Do forgive me. And don't look so horrified. I think I know whichone you mean. Her name is Sarah Sapinsky--yes, isn't it a pity!--andit's queer that you should ask me about her because I've been havingtrouble with that particular girl. "

"Trouble?"

"She knows she's pretty, and she knows she's different, and she knowsshe's handicapped, and that accounts for the discontented expression. That, and some other things. She gets seven a week here, and they takejust about all of it at home. She says she's sick of it. She has lefthome twice. I don't blame the child, but I've always managed to bringher back. Some day there'll be a third time--and I'm afraid of it. She'snot bad. She's really rather splendid, and she has a certain dreadfulphilosophy of her own. Her theory is that there are only two kinds ofpeople in the world. Those that give, and those that take. And she'stired of giving. Sarah didn't put it just that way; but you know whatshe means, don't you?"

"I know what she means, " said Fanny, grimly. 

So it was Sarah she saw above all else in her trip through the giganticplant; Sarah's face shone out from among the thousands; the thud-thudof Sarah's bundle-chute beat a dull accompaniment to the hum of the bighive; above the rustle of those myriad yellow order-slips, throughthe buzz of the busy mail room; beneath the roar of the presses in theprinting building, the crash of the dishes in the cafeteria, ran theleid-motif of Sarah-at-seven-a-week. Back in her office once more Fannydictated a brief observation-report for Fenger's perusal. 

"It seems to me there's room for improvement in our card index filesystem. It's thorough, but unwieldy. It isn't a system any more. It'sa ceremony. Can't you get a corps of system sharks to simplify thingsthere?"

She went into detail and passed on to the next suggestion. 

"If the North American Cloak & Suit Company can sell mail order dressesthat are actually smart and in good taste, I don't see why we have togo on carrying only the most hideous crudities in our women's dressdepartment. I know that the majority of our women customers wouldn'twear a plain, good looking little blue serge dress with a whitecollar, and some tailored buttons. They want cerise satin revers on aplum-colored foulard, and that's what we've been giving them. But thereare plenty of other women living miles from anywhere who know what'sbeing worn on Fifth avenue. I don't know how they know it, but theydo. And they want it. Why can't we reach those women, as well as theirshoddier sisters? The North American people do it. I'd wear one oftheir dresses myself. I wouldn't be found dead in one of ours. Here's asuggestion:

"Why can't we get Camille to design half a dozen models a season forus? Now don't roar at that. And don't think that the women on westernranches haven't heard of Camille. They have. They may know nothing ofMrs. Pankhurst, and Lillian Russell may be a myth to them, but I'llswear that every one of them knows that Camille is a dressmaker whomakes super-dresses. She is as much a household word among them asRoosevelt used to be to their men folks. And if we can promise them aCamille-designed dress for $7. 85 (which we could) then why don't we?"

At the very end, to her stenographer's mystification, she added thisirrelevant line. 

"Seven dollars a week is not a living wage. "

The report went to Fenger. He hurdled lightly over the first suggestion, knowing that the file system was as simple as a monster of its bulkcould be. He ignored the third hint. The second suggestion amused, then interested, then convinced him. Within six months Camille's nameactually appeared in the Haynes-Cooper catalogue. Not that alone, theHaynes-Cooper company broke its rule as to outside advertising, andannounced in full-page magazine ads the news of the $7. 85 gowns designedby Camille especially for the Haynes-Cooper company. There went upa nationwide shout of amusement and unbelief, but the announcementcontinued. Camille (herself a frump with a fringe) whose frocks wereworn by queens, and dancers and matrons with millions, and debutantes;Camille, who had introduced the slouch, revived the hoop, discovered thesunset chiffon, had actually consented to design six models everyseason for the mail order millions of the Haynes-Cooper women's dressdepartment--at a price that made even Michael Fenger wince. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fanny Brandeis' blouses showed real Cluny now, and her hats were nothingbut line. A scant two years before she had wondered if she would everreach a pinnacle of success lofty enough to enable her to wear bluetailor suits as smart as the well-cut garments worn by her mother'sfriend, Mrs. Emma McChesney. Mrs. McChesney's trig little suits had costfifty dollars, and had looked sixty. Fanny's now cost one hundred andtwenty-five, and looked one hundred and twenty-five. Her sleeves alonegave it away. If you would test the soul of a tailor you have only toglance at shoulder-seam, elbow and wrist. Therein lies the wizardry. Fanny's sleeve flowed from arm-pit to thumb-bone without a ripple. Also she moved from the South side to the North side, always a sign ofprosperity or social ambition, in Chicago. Her new apartment was nearthe lake, exhilaratingly high, correspondingly expensive. And she washideously lonely. She was earning a man-size salary now, and she wasworking like a man. A less magnificently healthy woman could not havestood the strain, for Fanny Brandeis was working with her head, not herheart. When we say heart we have come to mean something more than thehollow muscular structure that propels the blood through the veins. That, in the dictionary, is the primary definition. The secondarydefinition has to do with such words as emotion, sympathy, tenderness, courage, conviction. She was working, now, as Michael Fenger worked, relentlessly, coldly, indomitably, using all the material at hand asa means to an end, with never a thought of the material itself, as abuilder reaches for a brick, or stone, and fits it into place, smoothly, almost without actually seeing the brick itself, except as somethingwhich will help to make a finished wall. She rarely prowled the citynow. She told herself she was too tired at night, and on Sundays andholidays, and I suppose she was. Indeed, she no longer saw things withher former vision. It was as though her soul had shriveled in directproportion to her salary's expansion. The streets seldom furnished herwith a rich mental meal now. When she met a woman with a child, inthe park, her keen eye noted the child's dress before it saw the childitself, if, indeed, she noticed the child at all. 

Fascinating Facts, the guileless, pink-cheeked youth who had drivenher home the night of her first visit to the Fengers, shortly after hercoming to Haynes-Cooper's, had proved her faithful slave, and she hadnot abused his devotion. Indeed, she hardly considered it that. The sexside of her was being repressed with the artist side. Most men found hercurt, brisk, businesslike manner a little repellent, though interesting. They never made love to her, in spite of her undeniable attractiveness. Fascinating Facts drove her about in his smart little roadster and onenight he established himself in her memory forever as the first man whohad ever asked her to marry him. He did it haltingly, painfully, almostgrudgingly. Fanny was frankly amazed. She had enjoyed going about withhim. He rested and soothed her. He, in turn, had been stimulated by herenergy, her humor, her electric force. Nothing was said for a minuteafter his awkward declaration. 

"But, " he persisted, "you like me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Immensely. "

"Then why?"

"When a woman of my sort marries it's a miracle. I'm twenty-six, andintelligent and very successful. A frightful combination. Unmarriedwomen of my type aren't content just to feel. They must analyze theirfeelings. And analysis is death to romance. "

"Great Scott! You expect to marry somebody sometime, don't you, Fanny?"

"No one I know now. When I do marry, if I do, it will be with the ideaof making a definite gain. I don't mean necessarily worldly gain, though that would be a factor, too. " Fascinating Facts had been staringstraight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel with unnecessary rigidity. He relaxed a little now, and even laughed, though not very successfully. Then he said something very wise, for him. 

"Listen to me, girl. You'll never get away with that vampire stuff. Talons are things you have to be born with. You'll never learn to grabwith these. " He reached over, and picked up her left hand lying inertlyin her lap, and brought it up to his lips, and kissed it, glove and all. "They're built on the open-face pattern--for giving. You can't fool me. I know. "

A year and a half after her coming to Haynes-Cooper Fanny's departmentwas doing a business of a million a year. The need had been there. Shehad merely given it the impetus. She was working more or less directlywith Fenger now, with an eye on every one of the departments that hadto do with women's clothing, from shoes to hats. Not that she did anyactual buying, or selling in these departments. She still confinedher actual selecting of goods to the infants' wear section, but sheoccupied, unofficially, the position of assistant to the GeneralMerchandise Manager. They worked well together, she and Fenger, theirminds often marching along without the necessity of a single spokenword. There was no doubt that Fenger's mind was a marvelous pieceof mechanism. Under it the Haynes-Cooper plant functioned with theclockwork regularity of a gigantic automaton. System and Results--thesewere his twin gods. With his mind intent on them he failed to see thatnew gods, born of spiritual unrest, were being set up in the temples ofBig Business. Their coming had been rumored for many years. Words suchas Brotherhood, Labor, Rights, Humanity, Hours, once regarded as thespecial property of the street corner ranter, were creeping into oureveryday vocabulary. And strangely enough, Nathan Haynes, the gentle, the bewildered, the uninspired, heard them, and listened. Nathan Hayneshad begun to accustom himself to the roar of the flood that had formerlydeafened him. He was no longer stunned by the inrush of his millions. The report sheet handed him daily had never ceased to be a wildlyunexpected thing, and he still shrank from it, sometimes. It was sofantastic, so out of all reason. But he even dared, now and then, to putout a tentative hand to guide the flood. He began to realize, vaguely, that Italian Gardens, and marble pools, educational endowments and petcharities were but poor, ineffectual barriers of mud and sticks, soonswept away by the torrent. As he sat there in his great, luxuriousoffice, with the dim, rich old portraits gleaming down on him from thewalls, he began, gropingly, to evolve a new plan; a plan by which thegolden flood was to be curbed, divided, and made to form a sub-stream, to be utilized for the good of the many; for the good of the TenThousand, who were almost Fifteen Thousand now, with another fifteenthousand in mills and factories at distant points, whose entireoutput was swallowed up by the Haynes-Cooper plant. Michael Fenger, Super-Manager, listened to the plan, smiled tolerantly, and went onperfecting an already miraculous System. Sarah Sapinsky, at seven aweek, was just so much untrained labor material, easily replaced bymaterial exactly like it. No, Michael Fenger, with his head in the sand, heard no talk of new gods. He only knew that the monster plant underhis management was yielding the greatest possible profit under the leastpossible outlay. 

In Fanny Brandeis he had found a stimulating, energizing fellow worker. That had been from the beginning. In the first month or two of herwork, when her keen brain was darting here and there, into forgottenand neglected corners, ferreting out dusty scraps of business waste andholding them up to the light, disdainfully, Fenger had watched herwith a mingling of amusement and a sort of fond pride, as one would aprecocious child. As the months went on the pride and amusement weldedinto something more than admiration, such as one expert feels for afellow-craftsman. Long before the end of the first year he knew thathere was a woman such as he had dreamed of all his life and never hopedto find. He often found himself sitting at his office desk, or in hislibrary at home, staring straight ahead for a longer time than he daredadmit, his papers or book forgotten in his hand. His thoughts appliedto her adjectives which proved her a paradox: Generous, sympathetic, warm-hearted, impulsive, imaginative; cold, indomitable, brilliant, daring, intuitive. He would rouse himself almost angrily and forcehimself to concentrate again upon the page before him. I don't know howhe thought it all would end--he whose life-habit it was to follow outevery process to its ultimate step, whether mental or mechanical. As forFanny, there was nothing of the intriguant about her. She was used toadmiration. She was accustomed to deference from men. Brandeis' Bazaarhad insured that. All her life men had taken orders from her, all theway from Aloysius and the blithe traveling men of whom she bought goods, to the salesmen and importers in the Chicago wholesale houses. If theyhad attempted, occasionally, to mingle the social and personal with thecommercial Fanny had not resented their attitude. She had accepted theiradmiration and refused their invitations with equal good nature, andthus retained their friendship. It is not exaggeration to say thatshe looked upon Michael Fenger much as she had upon these genialfellow-workers. A woman as straightforward and direct as she has what isknown as a single-track mind in such matters. It is your soft and silkenmollusc type of woman whose mind pursues a slimy and labyrinthine trail. But it is useless to say that she did not feel something of the intensepersonal attraction of the man. Often it used to puzzle and annoy herto find that as they sat arguing in the brisk, everyday atmosphere ofoffice or merchandise room the air between them would suddenly becomeelectric, vibrant. They met each other's eyes with effort. When theirhands touched, accidentally, over papers or samples they snatched themback. Fanny found herself laughing uncertainly, at nothing, and wasfurious. When a silence fell between them they would pounce upon it, breathlessly, and smother it with talk. 

Do not think that any furtive love-making went on, sandwiched betweenshop talk. Their conversation might have taken place between two men. Indeed, they often were brutally frank to each other. Fanny had thevision, Fenger the science to apply it. Sometimes her intuition leapedahead of his reasoning. Then he would say, "I'm not sold on that, " whichis modern business slang meaning, "You haven't convinced me. " She wouldgo back and start afresh, covering the ground more slowly. 

Usually her suggestions were practical and what might be termed human. They seemed to be founded on an uncanny knowledge of people's frailties. It was only when she touched upon his beloved System that he wasadamant. 

"None of that socialistic stuff, " he would say. "This isn't a BenevolentAssociation we're running. It's the biggest mail order business inthe world, and its back-bone is System. I've been just fifteen yearsperfecting that System. It's my job. Hands off. "

"A fifteen year old system ought to be scrapped, " Fanny would retort, boldly. "Anyway, the Simon Legree thing has gone out. "

No one in the plant had ever dared to talk to him like that. He wouldglare down at Fanny for a moment, like a mastiff on a terrier. Fanny, seeing his face rage-red, would flash him a cheerful and impudent smile. The anger, fading slowly, gave way to another look, so that admirationand resentment mingled for a moment. 

"Lucky for you you're not a man. "

"I wish I were. "

"I'm glad you're not. "

Not a very thrilling conversation for those of you who are seekingheartthrobs. 

In May Fanny made her first trip to Europe for the firm. It was a suddenplan. Instantly Theodore leaped to her mind and she was startled at thetumult she felt at the thought of seeing him and his child. The baby, a girl, was more than a year old. Her business, a matter of two weeks, perhaps, was all in Berlin and Paris, but she cabled Theodore that shewould come to them in Munich, if only for a day or two. She had verylittle curiosity about the woman Theodore had married. The memory ofthat first photograph of hers, befrizzed, bejeweled, and asmirk, hadnever effaced itself. It had stamped her indelibly in Fanny's mind. 

The day before she left for New York (she sailed from there) she had aletter from Theodore. It was evident at once that he had not receivedher cable. He was in Russia, giving a series of concerts. Olga and thebaby were with him. He would be back in Munich in June. There was sometalk of America. When Fanny realized that she was not to see him sheexperienced a strange feeling that was a mixture of regret and relief. All the family love in her, a racial trait, had been stirred at thethought of again seeing that dear blond brother, the self-centered, willful, gifted boy who had held the little congregation rapt, there inthe Jewish house of worship in Winnebago. But she had recoiled a littlefrom the meeting with this other unknown person who gave concerts inRussia, who had adopted Munich as his home, who was the husband of thisOlga person, and the father of a ridiculously German looking baby in avery German looking dress, all lace and tucks, and wearing bracelets onits chubby arms, and a locket round its neck. That was what one mightexpect of Olga's baby. But not of Theodore's. Besides, what business hadthat boy with a baby, anyway? Himself a baby. 

Fenger had arranged for her cabin, and she rather resented its luxuryuntil she learned later, that it is the buyers who always occupy thestaterooms de luxe on ocean liners. She learned, too, that the men inyachting caps and white flannels, and the women in the smartest andmost subdued of blue serge and furs were not millionaires temporarilydeprived of their own private seagoing craft, but buyers like herself, shrewd, aggressive, wise and incredibly endowed with savoir faire. Merely to watch one of them dealing with a deck steward was to know forall time the superiority of mind over matter. 

Most incongruously, it was Ella Monahan and Clarence Heyl who wavedgood-by to her as her ship swung clear of the dock. Ella was in NewYork on her monthly trip. Heyl had appeared at the hotel as Fanny wasadjusting her veil and casting a last rather wild look around the room. Molly Brandeis had been the kind of woman who never misses a train oroverlooks a hairpin. Fanny's early training had proved invaluable morethan once in the last two years. Nevertheless, she was rather flustered, for her, as the elevator took her down to the main floor. She toldherself it was not the contemplation of the voyage itself that thrilledher. It was the fact that here was another step definitely marking herprogress. Heyl, looking incredibly limp, was leaning against a gaudymarble pillar, his eyes on the downcoming elevators. Fanny saw himjust an instant before he saw her, and in that moment she found herselfwondering why this boy (she felt years older than he) should look sofantastically out of place in this great, glittering, feverish hotellobby. Just a shy, rather swarthy Jewish boy, who wore the right kind ofclothes in the wrong manner--then Heyl saw her and came swiftly towardher. 

"Hello, Fan!"

"Hello, Clancy!" They had not seen each other in six months. 

"Anybody else going down with you?"

"No. Ella Monahan had a last-minute business appointment, but shepromised to be at the dock, somehow, before the boat leaves. I'm goingto be grand, and taxi all the way. "

"I've an open car, waiting. "

"But I won't have it! I can't let you do that. "

"Oh, yes you can. Don't take it so hard. That's the trouble with youbusiness women. You're killing the gallantry of a nation. Some day oneof you will get up and give me a seat in a subway----"

"I'll punish you for that, Clancy. If you want the Jane Austen thingI'll accommodate. I'll drop my handkerchief, gloves, bag, flowers andfur scarf at intervals of five minutes all the way downtown. Then youmay scramble around on the floor of the cab and feel like a knight. "

Fanny had long ago ceased to try to define the charm of this man. Shealways meant to be serenely dignified with him. She always ended byfeeling very young, and, somehow, gloriously carefree and lighthearted. There was about him a naturalness, a simplicity, to which one respondedin kind. 

Seated beside her he turned and regarded her with disconcertingscrutiny. 

"Like it?" demanded Fanny, pertly. And smoothed her veil, consciously. 

"No. "

"Well, for a man who looks negligee even in evening clothes aren't youovercritical?"

"I'm not criticizing your clothes. Even I can see that that hat and suithave the repressed note that means money. And you're the kind of womanwho looks her best in those plain dark things. "

"Well, then?"

"You look like a buyer. In two more years your face will have that hardfinish that never comes off. "

"I am a buyer. "

"You're not. You're a creator. Remember, I'm not belittling yourjob. It's a wonderful job--for Ella Monahan. I wish I had the gift ofeloquence. I wish I had the right to spank you. I wish I could prove toyou, somehow, that with your gift, and heritage, and racial right it'sas criminal for you to be earning your thousands at Haynes-Cooper's asit would have been for a vestal virgin to desert her altar fire to stokea furnace. Your eyes are bright and hard, instead of tolerant. Yourmouth is losing its graciousness. Your whole face is beginning to bestamped with a look that says shrewdness and experience, and success. "

"I am successful. Why shouldn't I look it?"

"Because you're a failure. I'm sick, I tell you--sick withdisappointment in you. Jane Addams would have been a success inbusiness, too. She was born with a humanity sense, and a value sense, and a something else that can't be acquired. Ida Tarbell could havemanaged your whole Haynes-Cooper plant, if she'd had to. So could adozen other women I could name. You don't see any sign of what you callsuccess on Jane Addams's face, do you? You wouldn't say, on seeing her, that here was a woman who looked as if she might afford hundred-dollartailor suits and a town car. No. All you see in her face is thereflection of the souls of all the men and women she has worked to save. She has covered her job--the job that the Lord intended her to cover. And to me she is the most radiantly beautiful woman I have ever seen. "

Fanny sat silent. She was twisting the fingers of one hand in the gripof the other, as she had since childhood, when deeply disturbed. Andsuddenly she began to cry--silently, harrowingly, as a man cries, hershoulders shaking, her face buried in her furs. 

"Fanny! Fanny girl!" He was horribly disturbed and contrite. He pattedher arm, awkwardly. She shook free of his hand, childishly. "Don't cry, dear. I'm sorry. It's just that I care so much. It's just----"

She raised an angry, tear-stained face. "It's just that you have anexalted idea of your own perceptions. It's just that you've grown upfrom what they used to call a bright little boy to a bright young man, and you're just as tiresome now as you were then. I'm happy enough, except when I see you. I'm getting the things I starved for all thoseyears. Why, I'll never get over being thrilled at the idea of beingable to go to the theater, or to a concert, whenever I like. Actuallywhenever I want to. And to be able to buy a jabot, or a smart hat, or abook. You don't know how I wanted things, and how tired I got of neverhaving them. I'm happy! I'm happy! Leave me alone!"

"It's an awful price to pay for a hat, and a jabot, and a book and atheater ticket, Fan. "

Ella Monahan had taken the tube, and was standing in the great shed, watching arrivals with interest, long before they bumped over thecobblestones of Hoboken. The three descended to Fanny's cabin. Ella hadsent champagne--six cosy pints in a wicker basket. 

"They say it's good for seasickness, " she announced, cheerfully, "butit's a lie. Nothing's good for seasickness, except death, or dry land. But even if you do feel miserable--and you probably will--there'ssomething about being able to lie in your berth and drink champagnealone, by the spoonful, that's sort of soothing. "

Heyl had fallen silent. Fanny was radiant again, and exclamatory overher books and flowers. 

"Of course it's my first trip, " she explained, "and an event in my life, but I didn't suppose that anybody else would care. What's this? Candy?Glace fruit. " She glanced around the luxurious little cabin, then up atHeyl, impudently. "I may be a coarse commercial person, Clancy, but Imust say I like this very, very much. Sorry. "

They went up on deck. Ella, a seasoned traveler, was full of partinginstructions. "And be sure to eat at Kempinski's, in Berlin. Twentycents for lobster. And caviar! Big as hen's eggs, and as cheap ascodfish. And don't forget to order mai-bowle. It tastes like champagne, but isn't, and it has the most delicious dwarf strawberries floating ontop. This is just the season for it. You're lucky. If you tip the waiterone mark he's yours for life. Oh, and remember the plum compote. You'llbe disappointed in their Wertheim's that they're always bragging about. After all, Field's makes 'em all look like country stores. "

"Wertheim's? Is that something to eat, too?"

"No, idiot. It's their big department store. " Ella turned to Heyl, for whom she felt mingled awe and liking. "If this trip of hers issuccessful, the firm will probably send her over three or four times ayear. It's a wonderful chance for a kid like her. "

"Then I hope, " said Heyl, quietly, "that this trip may be a failure. "

Ella smiled, uncertainly. 

"Don't laugh, " said Fanny, sharply. "He means it. "

Ella, sensing an unpleasant something in which she had no part, coveredthe situation with another rush of conversation. 

"You'll get the jolt of your life when you come to Paris and find thatyou're expected to pay for the lunches, and all the cab fares, andeverything, of those shrimpy little commissionaires. Polite littlefellows, they are, in frock coats, and mustaches, and they just standaside, as courtly as you please, while you pay for everything. Theirhouse expects it. I almost passed away, the first time, but you get usedto it. Say, imagine one of our traveling men letting you pay for hislunch and taxi. "

She rattled on, genially. Heyl listened with unfeigned delight. Ellafound herself suddenly abashed before those clear, far-seeing eyes. "Youthink I'm a gabby old girl, don't you?"

"I think you're a wonderful woman, " said Heyl. "Very wise, and verykind. "

"Why--thanks, " faltered Ella. "Why--thanks. "

They said their good-bys. Ella hugged Fanny warm-heartedly. Then sheturned away, awkwardly. Heyl put his two hands on Fanny's shoulders andlooked down at her. For a breathless second she thought he was about tokiss her. She was amazed to find herself hoping that he would. But hedidn't. "Good-by, " he said, simply. And took her hand in his steel gripa moment, and dropped it. And turned away. A messenger boy, very muchout of breath, came running up to her, a telegram in his hand. 

"For me?" Fanny opened it, frowned, smiled. "It's from Mr. Fenger. Goodwishes. As if all those flowers weren't enough. "

"Mm, " said Ella. She and Heyl descended the gang-way, and stood at thedock's edge, looking rather foolish and uncertain, as people do at suchtimes. There followed a few moments of scramble, of absurdly shoutedlast messages, of bells, and frantic waving of handkerchiefs. Fanny, at the rail, found her two among the crowd, and smiled down upon them, mistily. Ella was waving energetically. Heyl was standing quite still, looking up. The ship swung clear, crept away from the dock. The good-bysswelled to a roar. Fanny leaned far over the rail and waved too, a sobin her throat. Then she saw that she was waving with the hand that heldthe yellow telegram. She crumpled it in the other hand, and substitutedher handkerchief. Heyl still stood, hat in hand, motionless. 

"Why don't you wave good-by?" she called, though he could not possiblyhear. "Wave good-by!" And then the hand with the handkerchief went toher face, and she was weeping. I think it was that old drama-thrill inher, dormant for so long. But at that Heyl swung his hat above his head, three times, like a schoolboy, and, grasping Ella's plump and resistingarm, marched abruptly away. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The first week in June found her back in New York. That month ofabsence had worked a subtle change. The two weeks spent in crossing andrecrossing had provided her with a let-down that had been almost jarringin its completeness. Everything competitive had seemed to fade away withthe receding shore, and to loom up again only when the skyline became athing of smoke-banks, spires, and shafts. She had had only two weeks forthe actual transaction of her business. She must have been something ofa revelation to those Paris and Berlin manufacturers, accustomed thoughthey were to the brisk and irresistible methods of the American businesswoman. She was, after all, absurdly young to be talking in termsof millions, and she was amazingly well dressed. This last passedunnoticed, or was taken for granted in Paris, but in Berlin, home of thefrump and the flour-sack figure, she was stared at, appreciatively. Herbusiness, except for one or two unimportant side lines, had to do withtwo factories on whose product the Haynes-Cooper company had long had acovetous eye. Quantity, as usual, was the keynote of their demand, and Fanny's task was that of talking in six-figure terms to theseconservative and over-wary foreign manufacturers. That she hadsuccessfully accomplished this, and that she had managed to impress themalso with the important part that time and promptness in delivery playedin a swift-moving machine like the Haynes-Cooper concern, was due tomany things beside her natural business ability. Self-confidence wasthere, and physical vigor, and diplomacy. But above all there was thatsheer love of the game; the dramatic sense that enabled her to seeherself in the part. That alone precluded the possibility of failure. She knew how youthful she looked, and how glowing. She anticipated thelook that came into their faces when she left polite small-talk behindand soared up into the cold, rarefied atmosphere of business. Shedelighted in seeing the admiring and tolerant smirk vanish and give wayto a startled and defensive attentiveness. 

It might be mentioned that she managed, somehow, to spend almost halfa day in Petticoat Lane, and its squalid surroundings, while in London. She actually prowled, alone, at night, in the evil-smelling, narrowstreets of the poorer quarter of Paris, and how she escaped unharmed isa mystery that never bothered her, because she had never known fear ofstreets. She had always walked on the streets of Winnebago, Wisconsin, alone. It never occurred to her not to do the same in the streets ofChicago, or New York, or London, or Paris. She found Berlin, withits Adlon, its appalling cleanliness, its overfed populace, and itsomnipresent Kaiser forever scudding up and down Unter den Linden in hischocolate-colored car, incredibly dull, and unpicturesque. Something shehad temporarily lost there in the busy atmosphere of the Haynes-Cooperplant, seemed to have returned, miraculously. 

New York, on her return, was something of a shock. She remembered howvividly fresh it had looked to her on the day of that first visit, months before. Now, to eyes fresh from the crisp immaculateness of Parisand Berlin, Fifth avenue looked almost grimy, and certainly shabby inspots. 

Ella Monahan, cheerful, congratulatory, beaming, met her at the pier, and Fanny was startled at her own sensation of happiness as she sawthat pink, good-natured face looking up at her from the crowd below. Themonth that had gone by since last she saw Ella standing just so, seemedto slip away and fade into nothingness. 

"I waited over a day, " said Ella, "just to see you. My, you look grand!I know where you got that hat. Galeries Lafayette. How much?"

"I don't expect you to believe it. Thirty-five francs. Seven dollars. Icouldn't get it for twenty-five here. "

They were soon clear of the customs. Ella had engaged a room for her atthe hotel they always used. As they rode uptown together, happily, Ellaopened her bag and laid a little packet of telegrams and letters inFanny's lap. 

"I guess Fenger's pleased, all right, if telegrams mean anything. Notthat I know they're from him. But he said--"

But Fanny was looking up from one of them with a startled expression. "He's here. Fenger's here. "

"In New York?" asked Ella, rather dully. 

"Yes. " She ripped open another letter. It was from Theodore. He wascoming to New York in August. The Russian tour had been a brilliantsuccess. They had arranged a series of concerts for him in the UnitedStates. He could give his concerto there. It was impossible in Russia, Munich, even Berlin, because it was distinctly Jewish in theme--asJewish as the Kol Nidre, and as somber. They would have none of it inEurope. Prejudice was too strong. But in America! He was happier than hehad been in years. Olga objected to coming to America, but she wouldget over that. The little one was well, and she was learning to talk. Actually! They were teaching her to say Tante Fanny. 

"Well!" exclaimed Fanny, her eyes shining. She read bits of the letteraloud to Ella. Ella was such a satisfactory sort of person to whom toread a letter aloud. She exclaimed in all the right places. Her face wasas radiant as Fanny's. They both had forgotten all about Fenger, theirChief. But they had been in their hotel scarcely a half hour, and Ellahad not done exclaiming over the bag that Fanny had brought her fromParis, when his telephone call came. 

He wasted very little time on preliminaries. 

"I'll call for you at four. We'll drive through the park, and out by theriver, and have tea somewhere. "

"That would be wonderful. That is, if Ella's free. I'll ask her. "

"Ella?"

"Yes. She's right here. Hold the wire, will you?" She turned away fromthe telephone to face Ella. "It's Mr. Fenger. He wants to take us bothdriving this afternoon. You can go, can't you?"

"I certainly CAN, " replied Miss Monahan, with what might have appearedto be undue force. 

Fanny turned back to the telephone. "Yes, thanks. We can both go. We'llbe ready at four. "

Fanny decided that Fenger's muttered reply couldn't have been what shethought it was. 

Ella busied herself with the unpacking of a bag. She showed adisposition to spoil Fanny. "You haven't asked after your friend, Mr. Heyl. My land! If I had a friend like that--" "Oh, yes, " said Fanny, vaguely. "I suppose you and he are great chums by this time. He's a niceboy. "

"You don't suppose anything of the kind, " Ella retorted, crisply. "Thatboy, as you call him--and it isn't always the man with the biggest fiststhat's got the most fight in him--is about as far above me as--as--"she sat down on the floor, ponderously, beside the open bag, andgesticulated with a hairbrush, at loss for a simile "as an eagle isabove a waddling old duck. No, I don't mean that, either, because Inever did think much of the eagle, morally. But you get me. Not thathe knows it, or shows it. Heyl, I mean. Lord, no! But he's gotsomething--something kind of spiritual in him that makes you that way, too. He doesn't say much, either. That's the funny part of it. I do allthe talking, seems, when I'm with him. But I find myself saying thingsI didn't know I knew. He makes you think about things you're afraid toface by yourself. Big things. Things inside of you. " She fell silent amoment, sitting cross-legged before the bag. Then she got up, snappedthe bag shut, and bore it across the room to a corner. "You know he'sgone, I s'pose. "

"Gone?"

"To those mountains, or wherever it is he gets that look in his eyesfrom. That's my notion of a job. They let him go for the whole summer, roaming around being a naturalist, just so's he'll come back in thewinter. "

"And the column?" Fanny asked. "Do they let that go, too?"

"I guess he's going to do some writing for them up there. After all, he's the column. It doesn't make much difference where he writes from. Did you know it's being syndicated now, all over the country? Well, itis. That's the secret of its success, I suppose. It isn't only a columnwritten about New York for a New York paper. It's about everything, foranybody. It's the humanest stuff. And he isn't afraid of anything. NewYork's crazy about him. They say he's getting a salary you wouldn'tbelieve. I'm a tongue-tied old fool when I'm with him, but then, helikes to talk about you, mostly, so it doesn't matter. "

Fanny turned swiftly from the dressing-table, where she was taking thepins out of her vigorous, abundant hair. 

"What kind of thing does he say about me, Ellen girl. H'm? What kind ofthing?"

"Abuse, mostly. I'll be running along to my own room now. I'll be outfor lunch, but back at four, for that airing Fenger's so wild to haveme take. If I were you I'd lie down for an hour, till you get yourland-legs. " She poked her head in at the door again. "Not that youlook as if you needed it. You've got a different look, somehow. Kind ofrested. After all, there's nothing like an ocean voyage. "

She was gone. Fanny stood a moment, in the center of the room. Therewas nothing relaxed or inert about her. Had you seen her standing there, motionless, you would still have got a sense of action from her. Shelooked so splendidly alive. She walked to the window, now, and stoodlooking down upon New York in early June. Summer had not yet turnedthe city into a cauldron of stone and steel. From her height she couldglimpse the green of the park, with a glint of silver in its heart, thatwas the lake. Her mind was milling around, aimlessly, in a manner farremoved from its usual orderly functioning. Now she thought of Theodore, her little brother--his promised return. It had been a slow and painfulthing, his climb. Perhaps if she had been more ready to help, if shehad not always waited until he asked the aid that she might havevolunteered--she thrust that thought out of her mind, rudely, andslammed the door on it. . . . Fenger. He had said, "Damn!" when she hadtold him about Ella. And his voice had been--well--she pushed thatthought outside her mind, too. . . . Clarence Heyl. . . . "He makes you thinkabout things you're afraid to face by yourself. Big things. Thingsinside of you. . . . "

Fanny turned away from the window. She decided she must be tired, afterall. Because here she was, with everything to make her happy: Theodorecoming home; her foreign trip a success; Ella and Fenger to praise herand make much of her; a drive and tea this afternoon (she wasn't abovethese creature comforts)--and still she felt unexhilarated, dull. Shedecided to go down for a bit of lunch, and perhaps a stroll of tenor fifteen minutes, just to see what Fifth avenue was showing. Itwas half-past one when she reached that ordinarily well-regulatedthoroughfare. She found its sidewalks packed solid, up and down, as faras the eye could see, with a quiet, orderly, expectant mass of people. Squads of mounted police clattered up and down, keeping the middleof the street cleared. Whatever it was that had called forth thatincredible mass, was scheduled to proceed uptown from far downtown, andthat very soon. Heads were turned that way. Fanny, wedged in the crowd, stood a-tiptoe, but she could see nothing. It brought to her mind theCircus Day of her Winnebago childhood, with Elm street packed withtownspeople and farmers, all straining their eyes up toward Cherrystreet, the first turn in the line of march. Then, far away, the blareof a band. "Here they come!" Just then, far down the canyon of Fifthavenue, sounded the cry that had always swayed Elm street, Winnebago. "Here they come!"

"What is it?" Fanny asked a woman against whom she found herselfclose-packed. "What are they waiting for?"

"It's the suffrage parade, " replied the woman. "The big suffrage parade. Don't you know?"

"No. I haven't been here. " Fanny was a little disappointed. The crowdhad surged forward, so that it was impossible for her to extricateherself. She found herself near the curb. She could see down the broadstreet now, and below Twenty-third street it was a moving, glitteringmass, pennants, banners, streamers flying. The woman next hervolunteered additional information. 

"The mayor refused permission to let them march. But they fought it, andthey say it's the greatest suffrage parade ever held. I'd march myself, only--"

"Only what?"

"I don't know. I'm scared to, I think. I'm not a New Yorker. "

"Neither am I, " said Fanny. Fanny always became friendly with the womannext her in a crowd. That was her mother in her. One could hear themusic of the band, now. Fanny glanced at her watch. It was not quitetwo. Oh, well, she would wait and see some of it. Her mind was still toofreshly packed with European impressions to receive any real idea ofthe value of this pageant, she told herself. She knew she did not feelparticularly interested. But she waited. 

Another surging forward. It was no longer, "Here they come!" but, "Herethey are!"

And here they were. 

A squad of mounted police, on very prancy horses. The men looked veryruddy, and well set-up and imposing. Fanny had always thrilled toanything in uniform, given sufficient numbers of them. Another policesquad. A brass band, on foot. And then, in white, on a snow-whitecharger, holding a white banner aloft, her eyes looking straight ahead, her face very serious and youthful, the famous beauty and suffrageleader, Mildred Inness. One of the few famous beauties who actuallywas a beauty. And after that women, women, women! Hundreds of them, thousands of them, a river of them flowing up Fifth avenue to the park. More bands. More horses. Women! Women! They bore banners. This section, that section. Artists. School teachers. Lawyers. Doctors. Writers. Womenin college caps and gowns. Women in white, from shoes to hats. Youngwomen. Girls. Gray-haired women. A woman in a wheel chair, smiling. Aman next to Fanny began to jeer. He was a red-faced young man, with acoarse, blotchy skin, and thick lips. He smoked a cigar, and called tothe women in a falsetto voice, "Hello, Sadie!" he called. "Hello, kid!"And the women marched on, serious-faced, calm-eyed. There came floats;elaborate affairs, with girls in Greek robes. Fanny did not care forthese. More solid ranks. And then a strange and pitiful and tragicand eloquent group. Their banner said, "Garment Workers. Infants' WearSection. " And at their head marched a girl, carrying a banner. I don'tknow how she attained that honor. I think she must have been one ofthose fiery, eloquent leaders in her factory clique. The banner shecarried was a large one, and it flapped prodigiously in the breeze, andits pole was thick and heavy. She was a very small girl, even in thatgroup of pale-faced, under-sized, under-fed girls. A Russian Jewess, evidently. Her shoes were ludicrous. They curled up at the toes, and theheels were run down. Her dress was a sort of parody on the prevailingfashion. But on her face, as she trudged along, hugging the pole of thegreat pennant that flapped in the breeze, was stamped a look. --well, yousee that same look in some pictures of Joan of Arc. It wasn't merely alook. It was a story. It was tragedy. It was the history of a people. You saw in it that which told of centuries of oppression in Russia. Yousaw eager groups of student Intellectuals, gathered in secret placesfor low-voiced, fiery talk. There was in it the unspeakable misery ofSiberia. It spoke eloquently of pogroms, of massacres, of Kiev and itssister-horror, Kishineff. You saw mean and narrow streets, and carefullydarkened windows, and, on the other side of those windows the warmyellow glow of the seven-branched Shabbos light. Above this there shonethe courage of a race serene in the knowledge that it cannot die. And illuminating all, so that her pinched face, beneath the flappingpennant, was the rapt, uplifted countenance of the Crusader, thereblazed the great glow of hope. This woman movement, spoken of so gliblyas Suffrage, was, to the mind of this over-read, under-fed, emotional, dreamy little Russian garment worker the glorious means to a long hopedfor end. She had idealized it, with the imagery of her kind. She hadendowed it with promise that it would never actually hold for her, perhaps. And so she marched on, down the great, glittering avenue, proudly clutching her unwieldy banner, a stunted, grotesque, magnificentfigure. More than a figure. A symbol. 

Fanny's eyes followed her until she passed out of sight. She put up herhand to her cheek, and her face was wet. She stood there, and the paradewent on, endlessly, it seemed, and she saw it through a haze. Bands. More bands. Pennants. Floats. Women. Women. Women. 

"I always cry at parades, " said Fanny, to the woman who stood nexther--the woman who wanted to march, but was scared to. "That's allright, " said the woman. "That's all right. " And she laughed, because shewas crying, too. And then she did a surprising thing. She elbowed herway to the edge of the crowd, past the red-faced man with the cigar, out to the street, and fell into line, and marched on up the street, shoulders squared, head high. 

Fanny glanced down at her watch. It was quarter after four. With alittle gasp she turned to work her way through the close-packed crowd. It was an actual physical struggle, from which she emerged disheveled, breathless, uncomfortably warm, and minus her handkerchief, but she hadgained the comparative quiet of the side street, and she made the shortdistance that lay between the Avenue and her hotel a matter of littlemore than a minute. In the hotel corridor stood Ella and Fenger, theformer looking worried, the latter savage. 

"Where in the world--" began Ella. 

"Caught in the jam. And I didn't want to get out. It was--itwas--glorious!" She was shaking hands with Fenger, and realizing for thefirst time that she must be looking decidedly sketchy and that she hadlost her handkerchief. She fished for it in her bag, hopelessly, whenFenger released her hand. He had not spoken. Now he said:

"What's the matter with your eyes?"

"I've been crying, " Fanny confessed cheerfully. 

"Crying!"

"The parade. There was a little girl in it--" she stopped. Fenger wouldnot be interested in that little girl. Now Clancy would have--but Ellabroke in on that thought. 

"I guess you don't realize that out in front of this hotel there's akind of a glorified taxi waiting, with the top rolled back, and it'sbeen there half an hour. I never expect to see the time when I couldenjoy keeping a taxi waiting. It goes against me. "

"I'm sorry. Really. Let's go. I'm ready. "

"You are not. Your hair's a sight; and those eyes!"

Fenger put a hand on her arm. "Go on up and powder your nose, MissBrandeis. And don't hurry. I want you to enjoy this drive. "

On her way up in the elevator Fanny thought, "He has lost his waistline. Now, that couldn't have happened in a month. Queer I didn't notice itbefore. And he looks soft. Not enough exercise. "

When she rejoined them she was freshly bloused and gloved and all tracesof the tell-tale red had vanished from her eyelids. Fifth avenue wasimpossible. Their car sped up Madison avenue, and made for the Park. ThePlaza was a jam of tired marchers. They dispersed from there, but thereseemed no end to the line that still flowed up Fifth avenue. Fengerseemed scarcely to see it. He had plunged at once into talk of theEuropean trip. Fanny gave him every detail, omitting nothing. Sherepeated all that her letters and cables had told. Fenger was moreexcited than she had ever seen him. He questioned, cross-questioned, criticized, probed, exacted an account of every conversation. Usuallyit was not method that interested him, but results. Fanny, havingaccomplished the thing she had set out to do, had lost interest in itnow. The actual millions so glibly bandied in the Haynes-Cooper planthad never thrilled her. The methods by which they were made possiblehad. 

Ella had been listening with the shrewd comprehension of one who admiresthe superior art of a fellow craftsman. 

"I'll say this, Mr. Fenger. If I could make you look like that, by goingto Europe and putting it over those foreign boys, I'd feel I'd earneda year's salary right there, and quit. Not to speak of thecross-examination you're putting her through. "

Fenger laughed, a little self-consciously. "It's just that I want to besure it's real. I needn't tell you how important this trick is that MissBrandeis has just turned. " He turned to Fanny, with a boyish laugh. "Nowdon't pose. You know you can't be as bored as you look. "

"Anyway, " put in Ella, briskly, "I move that the witness step down. Shemay not be bored, but she certainly must be tired, and she's beginningto look it. Just lean back, Fanny, and let the green of this park soakin. At that, it isn't so awfully green, when you get right close, exceptthat one stretch of meadow. Kind of ugly, Central Park, isn't it? Bare. "

Fanny sat forward. There was more sparkle in her face than at any timeduring the drive. They were skimming along those green-shaded drivesthat are so sophisticatedly sylvan. 

"I used to think it was bare, too, and bony as an old maid, with no softcuddly places like the parks at home; no gracious green stretches, andno rose gardens. But somehow, it grows on you. The reticence of it. Andthat stretch of meadow near the Mall, in the late afternoon, with themist on it, and the sky faintly pink, and that electric sign--Somebody'sTires or other--winking off and on--"

"You're a queer child, " interrupted Fenger. "As wooden as an Indianwhile talking about a million-a-year deal, and lyrical over acombination of electric sign, sunset, and moth-eaten park. Oh, well, perhaps that's what makes you as you are. "

Even Ella looked a little startled at that. 

They had tea at Claremont, at a table overlooking the river and thePalisades. Fenger was the kind of man to whom waiters always give atable overlooking anything that should be overlooked. After tea theydrove out along the river and came back in the cool of the evening. Fanny was very quiet now. Fenger followed her mood. Ella sustained theconversation, somewhat doggedly. It was almost seven when they reachedthe plaza exit. And there Fanny, sitting forward suddenly, gave a littlecry. 

"Why--they're marching yet!" she said, and her voice was high withwonder. "They're marching yet! All the time we've been driving andteaing, they've been marching. "

And so they had. Thousands upon thousands, they had flowed along asrelentlessly, and seemingly as endlessly as a river. They were marchingyet. For six hours the thousands had poured up that street, making it amoving mass of white. And the end was not yet. What pen, and tongue, andsense of justice had failed to do, they were doing now by sheer, crudeforce of numbers. The red-faced hooligan, who had stood next to Fannyin the crowd hours before, had long ago ceased his jibes and slunk away, bored, if not impressed. After all, one might jeer at ten, or fifty, ora hundred women, or even five hundred. But not at forty thousand. 

Their car turned down Madison Avenue, and Fenger twisted about for alast look at the throng in the plaza. He was plainly impressed. Themagnitude of the thing appealed to him. To a Haynes-Cooper-trainedmind, forty thousand women, marching for whatever the cause, mustbe impressive. Forty thousand of anything had the respect of MichaelFenger. His eyes narrowed, thoughtfully. 

"They seem to have put it over, " he said. "And yet, what's the idea?Oh, I'm for suffrage, of course. Naturally. And all those thousands ofwomen, in white--still, a thing as huge as this parade has to be reducedto a common denominator, to be really successful. If somebody could takethe whole thing, boil it down, and make the country see what this hugedemonstration stands for. "

Fanny leaned forward suddenly. "Tell the man to stop. I want to getout. "

Fenger and Ella stared. "What for?" But Fenger obeyed. 

"I want to get something at this stationer's shop. " She had jumped downalmost before the motor had stopped at the curb. 

"But let me get it. "

"No. You can't. Wait here. " She disappeared within the shop. She wasback in five minutes, a flat, loosely wrapped square under her arm. "Cardboard, " she explained briefly, in answer to their questions. 

Fenger, about to leave them at their hotel, presented his plans for theevening. Fanny, looking up at him, her head full of other plans, thoughthe looked and sounded very much like Big Business. And, for the momentat least, Fanny Brandeis loathed Big Business, and all that it stoodfor. 

"It's almost seven, " Fenger was saying. "We'll be rubes in New York, this evening. You girls will just have time to freshen up a bit--Isuppose you want to--and then we'll have dinner, and go to the theater, and to supper afterward. What do you want to see?"

Ella looked at Fanny. And Fanny shook her head, "Thanks. You're awfullykind. But--no. "

"Why not?" demanded Fenger, gruffly. 

"Perhaps because I'm tired. And there's something else I must do. "

Ella looked relieved. Fenger's eyes bored down upon Fanny, but sheseemed not to feel them. She held out her hand. 

"You're going back to-morrow?" Fenger asked. "I'm not leaving untilThursday. "

"To-morrow, with Ella. Good-by. It's been a glorious drive. I feel quiterested. "

"You just said you were tired. "

The elevator door clanged, shutting out the sight of Fenger's resentfulfrown. 

"He's as sensitive as a soubrette, " said Ella. "I'm glad you decided notto go out. I'm dead, myself. A kimono for the rest of the evening. "

Fanny seemed scarcely to hear her. With a nod she left Ella, and enteredher own room. There she wasted no time. She threw her hat and coat onthe bed. Her suitcase was on the baggage stand. She turned on all thelights, swung the closed suitcase up to the table, shoved the tableagainst the wall, up-ended the suitcase so that its leather sidepresented a smooth surface, and propped a firm sheet of white cardboardagainst the impromptu rack. She brought her chair up close, fumbled inher bag for the pens she had just purchased. Her eyes were on the blankwhite surface of the paper. The table was the kind that has a sub-shelf. It prevented Fanny from crossing her legs under it, and that botheredher. While she fitted her pens, and blocked her paper, she kept onbarking her shins in unconscious protest against the uncomfortableconditions under which she must work. 

She sat staring at the paper now, after having marked it off intoblocks, with a pencil. She got up, and walked across the room, aimlessly, and stood there a moment, and came back. She picked up athread on the floor. Sat down again. Picked up her pencil, rolled it amoment in her palms, then, catching her toes behind either foreleg ofher chair, in an attitude that was as workmanlike as it was ungraceful, she began to draw, nervously, tentatively at first, but gaining infirmness and assurance as she went on. 

If you had been standing behind her chair you would have seen, emergingmiraculously from the white surface under Fanny's pencil, a thin, undersized little figure in sleazy black and white, whose face, underthe cheap hat, was upturned and rapturous. Her skirts were wind-blown, and the wind tugged, too, at the banner whose pole she hugged so tightlyin her arms. Dimly you could see the crowds that lined the street oneither side. Vaguely, too, you saw the faces and stunted figures of thelittle group of girls she led. But she, the central figure, stood outamong all the rest. Fanny Brandeis, the artist, and Fanny Brandeis, thesalesman, combined shrewdly to omit no telling detail. The wrong kind offeet in the wrong kind of shoes; the absurd hat; the shabby skirt--everybit of grotesquerie was there, serving to emphasize the glory of theface. Fanny Brandeis' face, as the figure grew, line by line, was aglorious thing, too. 

She was working rapidly. She laid down her pencil, now, and leaned back, squinting her eyes critically. She looked grimly pleased. Her hair wasrather rumpled, and her cheeks very pink. She took up her pen, now, andbegan to ink her drawing with firm black strokes. As she worked a littlecrow of delight escaped her--the same absurd crow of triumph that hadsounded that day in Winnebago, years and years before, when she, a school girl in a red tam o' shanter, had caught the likeness ofSchabelitz, the peasant boy, under the exterior of Schabelitz, thefamous. There sounded a smart little double knock at her door. Fannydid not heed it. She did not hear it. Her toes were caught behind thechair-legs again. She was slumped down on the middle of her spine. Shehad brought the table, with its ridiculously up-ended suitcase, verynear, so that she worked with a minimum of effort. The door opened. Fanny did not turn her head. Ella Monahan came in, yawning. She waswearing an expensive looking silk kimono that fell in straight, simplefolds, and gave a certain majesty to her ample figure. 

"Well, what in the world--" she began, and yawned again, luxuriously. She stopped behind Fanny's chair and glanced over her shoulder. The yawndied. She craned her neck a little, and leaned forward. And the littlegirl went marching by, in her cheap and crooked shoes, and her shortand sleazy skirt, with the banner tugging, tugging in the breeze. Fanny Brandeis had done her with that economy of line, and absenceof sentimentality which is the test separating the artist from thedraughtsman. 

Silence, except for the scratching of Fanny Brandeis's pen. 

"Why--the poor little kike!" said Ella Monahan. Then, after anothermoment of silence, "I didn't know you could draw like that. "

Fanny laid down her pen. "Like what?" She pushed back her chair, androse, stiffly. The drawing, still wet, was propped up against thesuitcase. Fanny walked across the room. Ella dropped into her chair, sothat when Fanny came back to the table it was she who looked over Ella'sshoulder. Into Ella's shrewd and heavy face there had come a certainlook. 

"They don't get a square deal, do they? They don't get a square deal. "

The two looked at the girl a moment longer, in silence. Then Fanny wentover to the bed, and picked up her hat and coat. She smoothed her hair, deftly, powdered her nose with care, and adjusted her hat at the smartangle approved by the Galeries Lafayette. She came back to the table, picked up her pen, and beneath the drawing wrote, in large print:

THE MARCHER. 

She picked up the drawing, still wet, opened the door, and with a smileat the bewildered Ella, was gone. 

It was after eight o'clock when she reached the Star building. She askedfor Lasker's office, and sent in her card. Heyl had told her that Laskerwas always at his desk at eight. Now, Fanny Brandeis knew that theaverage young woman, standing outside the office of a man like Lasker, unknown and at the mercy of office boy or secretary, continues to standoutside until she leaves in discouragement. But Fanny knew, too, thatshe was not an average young woman. She had, on the surface, an airof authority and distinction. She had that quiet assurance of oneaccustomed to deference. She had youth, and beauty, and charm. She had ahat and suit bought in Paris, France; and a secretary is only human. 

Carl Lasker's private office was the bare, bright, newspaper-strewn roomof a man who is not only a newspaper proprietor, but a newspaper man. There's a difference. Carl Lasker had sold papers on the street when hewas ten. He had slept on burlap sacks, paper stuffed, in the basementof a newspaper office. Ink flowed with the blood in his veins. He couldoperate a press. He could manipulate a linotype machine (that almosthumanly intelligent piece of mechanism). He could make up a paper singlehanded, and had done it. He knew the newspaper game, did Carl Lasker, from the composing room to the street, and he was a very great man inhis line. And so he was easy to reach, and simple to talk to, as are allgreat men. 

A stocky man, decidedly handsome, surprisingly young, well dressed, smooth shaven, direct. 

Fanny entered. Lasker laid down her card. "Brandeis. That's a goodname. " He extended his hand. He wore evening clothes, with a whiteflower in his buttonhole. He must have just come from a dinner, or hewas to attend a late affair, somewhere. Perhaps Fanny, taken aback, unconsciously showed her surprise, because Lasker grinned, as he wavedher to a chair. His quick mind had interpreted her thought. 

"Sit down, Miss Brandeis. You think I'm gotten up like the newspaperman in a Richard Harding Davis short story, don't you? What can I do foryou?"

Fanny wasted no words. "I saw the parade this afternoon. I did apicture. I think it's good. If you think so too, I wish you'd use it. "

She laid it, face up, on Lasker's desk. Lasker picked it up in his twohands, held it off, and scrutinized it. All the drama in the world isconcentrated in the confines of a newspaper office every day in theyear, and so you hear very few dramatic exclamations in such a place. Men like Lasker do not show emotion when impressed. It is too wearingon the mechanism. Besides, they are trained to self-control. So Laskersaid, now:

"Yes, I think it's pretty good, too. " Then, raising his voice to asudden bellow, "Boy!" He handed the drawing to a boy, gave a few brieforders, and turned back to Fanny. "To-morrow morning every other paperin New York will have pictures showing Mildred Inness, the beauty, onher snow-white charger, or Sophronisba A. Bannister, A. B. , Ph. D. , in hercap and gown, or Mrs. William Van der Welt as Liberty. We'll have thatlittle rat with the banner, and it'll get 'em. They'll talk about it. "His eyes narrowed a little. "Do you always get that angle?"

"Yes. "

"There isn't a woman cartoonist in New York who does that human stuff. Did you know that?"

"Yes. "

"Want a job?"

"N-no. "

His knowing eye missed no detail of the suit, the hat, the gloves, theshoes. 

"What's your salary now?"

"Ten thousand. "

"Satisfied?"

"No. "

"You've hit the heart of that parade. I don't know whether you could dothat every day, or not. But if you struck twelve half the time, it wouldbe enough. When you want a job, come back. "

"Thanks, " said Fanny quietly. And held out her hand. 

She returned in the subway. It was a Bronx train, full of sagging faces, lusterless eyes, grizzled beards; of heavy, black-eyed girls in soiledwhite shoes; of stoop-shouldered men, poring over newspapers in Hebrewscript; of smells and sounds and glaring light. 

And though to-morrow would bring its reaction, and common sense wouldhave her again in its cold grip, she was radiant to-night and glowingwith the exaltation that comes with creation. And over and over a voicewithin her was saying:

These are my people! These are my people!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The ship that brought Theodore Brandeis to America was the last ofits kind to leave German ports for years. The day after he sailed fromBremen came the war. Fanny Brandeis was only one of the millions ofAmericans who refused to accept the idea of war. She took it as apersonal affront. It was uncivilized, it was old fashioned, it wasinconvenient. Especially inconvenient. She had just come from Europe, where she had negotiated a million-dollar deal. War would mean that shecould not get the goods ordered. Consequently there could be no war. 

Theodore landed the first week in August. Fanny stole two days from theravenous bins to meet him in New York. I think she must have been a verylove-hungry woman in the years since her mother's death. She had neveradmitted it. But only emotions denied to the point of starvation couldhave been so shaken now at the thought of the feast before them. She hadtrained herself to think of him as Theodore the selfish, Theodore thecallous, Theodore the voracious. "An unsuccessful genius, " shetold herself. "He'll be impossible. They're bad enough when they'resuccessful. "

But now her eyes, her thoughts, her longings, her long-pent emotionswere straining toward the boat whose great prow was looming toward her, a terrifying bulk. The crowd awaiting the ship was enormous. A dramaticenough scene at any time, the great Hoboken pier this morning was filledwith an unrehearsed mob, anxious, thrilled, hysterical. The morningpapers had carried wireless news that the ship had been chased by aFrench gunboat and had escaped only through the timely warning of theDresden, a German gunboat. That had added the last fillip to an alreadytense situation. Tears were streaming down half the faces upturnedtoward the crowded decks. And from every side:

"Do you see her?"

"That's Jessie. There she is! Jessie!"

"Heh! Jim, old boy! Come on down!"

Fanny's eyes were searching the packed rails. "Ted!" she called, and choked back a sob. "Teddy!" Still she did not see him. She wassearching, womanlike, for a tall, blondish boy, with a sulky mouth, andhumorous eyes, and an unruly lock of hair that would insist on escapingfrom the rest and straggling down over his forehead. I think she waseven looking for a boy with a violin in his arms. A boy in knickers. Women lose all sense of time and proportion at such times. Still she didnot see him. The passengers were filing down the gangplank now; rushingdown as quickly as the careful hands of the crew would allow them, andhurling themselves into the arms of friends and family crowded below. Fanny strained her eyes toward that narrow passageway, anxious, hopeful, fearful, heartsick. For the moment Olga and the baby did not exist forher. And then she saw him. 

She saw him through an unimaginable disguise. She saw him, and knewhim in spite of the fact that the fair-haired, sulky, handsome boy hadvanished, and in his place walked a man. His hair was close-cropped, German-fashion; his face careworn and older than she had ever thoughtpossible; his bearing, his features, his whole personality stampedwith an unmistakable distinction. And his clothes were appallingly, inconceivably German. So she saw him, and he was her brother, and shewas his sister, and she stretched out her arms to him. 

"Teddy!" She hugged him close, her face buried in his shoulder. "Teddy, you--you Spitzbube you!" She laughed at that, a little hysterically. "Not that I know what a Spitzbube is, but it's the Germanest word Ican think of. " That shaven head. Those trousers. That linen. The awfulboots. The tie! "Oh, Teddy, and you're the Germanest thing I ever saw. "She kissed him again, rapturously. 

He kissed her, too, wordlessly at first. They moved aside a little, outof the crowd. Then he spoke for the first time. 

"God! I'm glad to see you, Fanny. " There was tragedy, not profanationin his voice. His hand gripped hers. He turned, and now, for thefirst time, Fanny saw that at his elbow stood a buxom, peasant woman, evidently a nurse, and in her arms a child. A child with Molly Brandeis'mouth, and Ferdinand Brandeis' forehead, and Fanny Brandeis' eyes, andTheodore Brandeis' roseleaf skin, and over, and above all these, weaving in and out through the whole, an expression or cast--a vague, undefinable thing which we call a resemblance--that could only have comefrom the woman of the picture, Theodore Brandeis' wife, Olga. 

"Why--it's the baby!" cried Fanny, and swung her out of the nurse'sprotesting arms. Such a German-looking baby. Such an adorablyGerman-looking baby. "Du kleine, du!" Fanny kissed the roseleaf cheek. "Du suszes--" She turned suddenly to Theodore. "Olga--where's Olga?"

"She did not come. "

Fanny tightened her hold of the little squirming bundle in her arms. "Didn't come?"

Theodore shook his head, dumbly. In his eyes was an agony of pain. Andsuddenly all those inexplicable things in his face were made clear toFanny. She placed the little Mizzi in the nurse's arms again. "Thenwe'll go, dear. They won't be a minute over your trunks, I'm sure. Justfollow me. "

Her arm was linked through Theodore's. Her hand was on his. Her headwas up. Her chin was thrust out, and she never knew how startlingly sheresembled the Molly Brandeis who used to march so bravely down Norrisstreet on her way to Brandeis' Bazaar. She was facing a situation, andshe recognized it. There was about her an assurance, a composure, ablithe capability that imparted itself to the three bewildered andhelpless ones in her charge. Theodore felt it, and the strained lookin his face began to lift just a little. The heavy-witted peasant womanfelt it, and trudged along, cheerfully. The baby in her arms seemed tosense it, and began to converse volubly and unintelligibly with the blueuniformed customs inspector. 

They were out of the great shed in an incredibly short time. Fannyseemed equal to every situation. She had taken the tube to Hoboken, butnow she found a commodious open car, and drove a shrewd bargain with thechauffeur. She bundled the three into it. Of the three, perhaps Theodoreseemed the most bewildered and helpless. He clung to his violin andFanny. 

"I feel like an immigrant, " he said. "Fan, you're a wonder. You don'tknow how much you look and act like mother. I've been watching you. It'sstartling. "

Fanny laughed and took his hand, and held his hand up to her breast, and crushed it there. "And you look like an illustration out of theFliegende Blaetter. It isn't only your clothes. Your face is German. As for Mizzi here--" she gathered the child in her arms again--"you'venever explained that name to me. Why, by the way, Mizzi? Of all thenames in the world. "

Theodore smiled a wry little smile. "Mizzi is named after Olga's chum. You see, in Vienna every other--well, chorus girl I suppose you'dcall them--is named Mizzi. Like all the Gladyses and Flossies here inAmerica. Well, Olga's special friend Mizzi--"

"I see, " said Fanny quietly. "Well, anything's better than Fanny. Alwaysdid make me think of an old white horse. " And at that the small Germanperson in her arms screwed her mouth into a fascinating bunch, and thenunscrewed it and, having made these preparations said, "Tante Fanny. Shecago. Tante Fanny. "

"Why, Mizzi Brandeis, you darling! Teddy, did you hear that! She said`Tante Fanny' and `Chicago' just as plainly!" "Did I hear it? Have Iheard anything else for weeks?"

The plump person on the opposite seat, who had been shaking her headviolently all this time here threatened to burst if not encouraged tospeak. Fanny nodded to her. Whereupon the flood broke. 

"Wunderbar, nicht war! Ich kuss' die handt, gnadiges Fraulein. " Sheactually did it, to Fanny's consternation. "Ich hab' ihr das gelernt, Gnadige. Selbst. Ist es nicht ganz entzuckend! Tante Fanny. AuchShecago. "

Fanny nodded a number of times, first up and down, signifying assent, then sideways, signifying unbounded wonder and admiration. She made agigantic effort to summon her forgotten German. 

"Was ist Ihre Name?" she managed to ask. 

"Otti. "

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Fanny, weakly. "Mizzi and Otti. It sounds like thefirst act of the `Merry Widow. '" She turned to Theodore. "I wish you'dsit back, and relax, and if you must clutch that violin case, do itmore comfortably. I don't want you to tell me a thing, now. New York isghastly in August. We'll get a train out of here to-morrow. My apartmentin Chicago is cool, and high, and quiet, and the lake is in the frontyard, practically. To-night, perhaps, we'll talk about--things. And, oh, Teddy, how glad I am to see you--to have you--to--" she put out a handand patted his thin cheek--"to touch you. "

And at that the man became a boy again. His face worked a moment, painfully and then his head came down in her lap that held the baby, and so she had them both for a moment, one arm about the child, one handsmoothing the boy's close-cropped hair. And in that moment she was moresplendidly maternal than either of the women who had borne these whomshe now comforted. 

It was Fanny who attended to the hotel rooms, to the baby's comfort, tothe railroad tickets, to the ordering of the meals. Theodore was like astranger in a strange land. Not only that, he seemed dazed. 

"We'll have it out to-night, " Fanny said to herself. "He'll neverget that look off his face until he has told it all. I knew she was abeast. "

She made him lie down while she attended to schedules, tickets, berths. She was gone for two hours. When she returned she found him lookingamused, terrified and helpless, all at once, while three men reportersand one woman special writer bombarded him with questions. The womanhad brought a staff artist with her, and he was now engaged in making abungling sketch of Theodore's face, with its ludicrous expression. 

Fanny sensed the situation and saved it. She hadn't sold goods all theseyears without learning the value of advertising. She came forward now, graciously (but not too graciously). Theodore looked relieved. Alreadyhe had learned that one might lean on this sister who was so capable, sobountifully alive. 

"Teddy, you're much too tired to talk. Let me talk for you. "

"My sister, Miss Brandeis, " said Teddy, and waved a rather feeble handin an inclusive gesture at the interrogatory five. 

Fanny smiled. "Do sit down, " she said, "all of you. Tell me, how did youhappen to get on my brother's trail?"

One of the men explained. "We had a list of ship's passengers, ofcourse. And we knew that Mr. Brandeis was a German violinist. And thenthe story of the ship being chased by a French boat. We just missed himdown at the pier--"

"But he isn't a German violinist, " interrupted Fanny. "Please get thatstraight. He's American. He is THE American violinist--or will be, assoon as his concert tour here is well started. It was Schabelitzhimself who discovered my brother, and predicted his brilliant career. Here"--she had been glancing over the artist's shoulder--"will you letme make a sketch for you--just for the fun of the thing? I do that kindof thing rather decently. Did you see my picture called `The Marcher, 'in the Star, at the time of the suffrage parade in May? Yes, that wasmine. Just because he has what we call a butcher haircut, don't thinkhe's German, because he isn't. You wouldn't call Winnebago, Wisconsin, Germany, would you?"

She was sketching him swiftly, daringly, masterfully. She was bringingout the distinction, the suffering, the boyishness in his face, andtoning down the queer little foreign air he had. Toning it, but notomitting it altogether. She was too good a showman for that. As shesketched she talked, and as she talked she drew Theodore into theconversation, deftly, and just when he was needed. She gave them whatthey had come for--a story. And a good one. She brought in Mizzi andOtti, for color, and she saw to it that they spelled those names as theyshould be spelled. She managed to gloss over the question of Olga. Ill. Detained. Last minute. Too brave to sacrifice her husband's Americantour. She finished her sketch and gave it to the woman reporter. It wasan amazingly compelling little piece of work--and yet, not so amazing, perhaps, when you consider the thing that Fanny Brandeis had put intoit. Then she sent them away, tactfully. They left, knowing all thatFanny Brandeis had wanted them to know; guessing little that she hadnot wanted them to guess. More than that no human being can accomplish, without the advice of his lawyer. 

"Whew!" from Fanny, when the door had closed. 

"Gott im Himmel!" from Theodore. "I had forgotten that America was likethat. "

"But America IS like that. And Teddy, we're going to make it sit up andtake notice. "

At that Theodore drooped again. Fanny thought that he looked startlinglyas she remembered her father had looked in those days of her childhood, when Brandeis' Bazaar was slithering downhill. The sight of him movedher to a sudden resolve. She crossed swiftly to him, and put oneheartening hand on his shoulder. 

"Come on, brother. Out with it. Let's have it all now. "

He reached up for her hand and held it, desperately. "Oh, Fan!" beganTheodore, "Fan, I've been through hell. "

Fanny said nothing. She only waited, quietly, encouragingly. She hadlearned when not to talk. Presently he took up his story, plungingdirectly into it, as though sensing that she had already divined much. 

"She married me for a living. You'll think that's a joke, knowing whatI was earning there, in Vienna, and how you and mother were denyingyourselves everything to keep me. But in a city that circulates acoin valued at a twentieth of a cent, an American dollar looms upbig. Besides, two of the other girls had got married. Good for nothingofficers. She was jealous, I suppose. I didn't know any of that. I wasflattered to think she'd notice me. She was awfully popular. She hasa kind of wit. I suppose you'd call it that. The other girls were justcoarse, and heavy, and--well--animal. You can't know the rottenness oflife there in Vienna. Olga could keep a whole supper table laughing allevening. I can see, now, that that isn't difficult when your audienceis made up of music hall girls, and stupid, bullet-headed officers, withtheir damned high collars, and their gold braid, and their silly swords, and their corsets, and their glittering shoes and their miserable pettypoverty beneath all the show. I thought I was a lucky boy. I'd havepitied everybody in Winnebago, if I'd ever thought of anybody inWinnebago. I never did, except once in a while of you and mother whenI needed money. I kept on with my music. I had sense enough left, forthat. Besides, it was a habit, by that time. Well, we were married. "

He laughed, an ugly, abrupt little laugh that ended in a moan, andturned his head and buried his face in Fanny's breast. And Fanny's armwas there, about his shoulder. "Fanny, you don't--I can't--" He stopped. Another silence. Fanny's arm tightened its hold. She bent and kissed thetop of the stubbly head, bowed so low now. "Fan, do you remember thatwoman in `The Three Musketeers'? The hellish woman, that all menloved and loathed? Well, Olga's like that. I'm not whining. I'm notexaggerating. I'm just trying to make you understand. And yet I don'twant you to understand. Only you don't know what it means to have you totalk to. To have some one who"--he clutched her hand, fearfully--"You dolove me, don't you, Fanny? You do, don't you, Sis?"

"More than any one in the world, " Fanny reassured him, quietly. "The waymother would have, if she had lived. "

A sigh escaped him, at that, as though a load had lifted from him. Hewent on, presently. "It would have been all right if I could have earnedjust a little more money. " Fanny shrank at that, and shut her eyes fora sick moment. "But I couldn't. I asked her to be patient. But you don'tknow the life there. There is no real home life. They live in the cafes. They go there to keep warm, in the winter, and to meet their friends, and gossip, and drink that eternal coffee, and every coffee house--thereare thousands--is a rendezvous. We had two rooms, comfortable ones, forVienna, and I tried to explain to her that if I could work hard, andget into concert, and keep at the composing, we'd be rich some day, andfamous, and happy, and she'd have clothes, and jewels. But she was toostupid, or too bored. Olga is the kind of woman who only believes whatshe sees. Things got worse all the time. She had a temper. So haveI--or I used to have. But when hers was aroused it was--horrible. Wordsthat--that--unspeakable words. And one day she taunted me with being a----with my race. The first time she called me that I felt that I mustkill her. That was my mistake. I should have killed her. And I didn't. "

"Teddy boy! Don't, brother! You're tired. You're excited and worn out. "

"No, I'm not. Just let me talk. I know what I'm saying. There'ssomething clean about killing. " He brooded a moment over that thought. Then he went on, doggedly, not raising his voice. His hands were claspedloosely. "You don't know about the intolerance and the anti-Semitismin Prussia, I suppose. All through Germany, for that matter. In Bavariait's bitter. That's one reason why Olga loathed Munich so. The queerpart of it is that all that opposition seemed to fan something in me;something that had been smoldering for a long time. " His voice had lostits dull tone now. It had in it a new timbre. And as he talked he beganto interlard his English with bits of German, the language to which histongue had accustomed itself in the past ten years. His sentences, too, took on a German construction, from time to time. He was plainly excitednow. "My playing began to improve. There would be a ghastly scene withOlga--sickening--degrading. Then I would go to my work, and I wouldplay, but magnificently! I tell you, it would be playing. I know. Tofool myself I know better. One morning, after a dreadful quarrel I gotthe idea for the concerto, and the psalms. Jewish music. As Jewish asthe Kol Nidre. I wanted to express the passion, and fire, and history ofa people. My people. Why was that? Tell me. Selbst, weiss ich nicht. I felt that if I could put into it just a millionth part of theirhumiliation, and their glory; their tragedy and their triumph; theirsorrow, and their grandeur; their persecution, their weldtschmerz. Volkschmerz. That was it. And through it all, weaving in and out, onegreat underlying motif. Indestructibility. The great cry which says, `Wecannot be destroyed!'"

He stood up, uncertainly. His eyes were blazing. He began to walk upand down the luxurious little room. Fanny's eyes matched his. She wasstaring at him, fascinated, trembling. 

She moistened her lips a little with her tongue. "And you've done it?Teddy! You've done--that!"

Theodore Brandeis stood up, very straight and tall. "Yes, " he said, simply. "Yes, I've done that. "

She came over to him then, and put her two hands on his shoulders. "Ted--dear--will you ever forgive me? I'll try to make up for it now. I didn't know. I've been blind. Worse than blind. Criminal. " She wasweeping now, broken-heartedly, and he was patting her with littlecomforting love pats, and whispering words of tenderness. 

"Forgive you? Forgive you what?"

"The years of suffering. The years you've had to spend with her. Withthat horrible woman--"

"Don't--" He sucked his breath between his teeth. His face had gonehaggard again. Fanny, direct as always, made up her mind that she wouldhave it all. And now. 

"There's something you haven't told me. Tell me all of it. You're mybrother and I'm your sister. We're all we have in the world. " And atthat, as though timed by some miraculous and supernatural stage manager, there came a cry from the next room; a sleepy, comfortable, imperiouslittle cry. Mizzi had awakened. Fanny made a step in the direction ofthe door. Then she turned back. "Tell me why Olga didn't come. Why isn'tshe here with her husband and baby?"

"Because she's with another man. "

"Another--"

"It had been going on for a long time. I was the last to know about it. It's that way, always, isn't it? He's an officer. A fool. He'll haveto take off his silly corsets now, and his velvet collar, and his shinyboots, and go to war. Damn him! I hope they'll kill him with a hundredbayonets, one by one, and leave him to rot on the field. She had beenfooling me all the time, and they had been laughing at me, the two ofthem. I didn't find it out until just before this American trip. Andwhen I confronted her with it she laughed in my face. She said she hatedme. She said she'd rather starve than leave him to come to America withme. She said I was a fiddling fool. She--" he was trembling and sickwith the shame of it--"God! I can't tell you the things she said. She wanted to keep Mizzi. Isn't that strange? She loves the baby. Sheneglects her, and spoils her, and once I saw her beat her, in a rage. But she says she loves my Mizzi, and I believe she does, in her owndreadful way. I promised her, and lied to her, and then I ran away withMizzi and her nurse. "

"Oh, I thank God for that!" Fanny cried. "I thank God for that! And now, Teddy boy, we'll forget all about those miserable years. We'll forgetall about her, and the life she led you. You're going to have yourchance here. You're going to be repaid for every minute of sufferingyou've endured. I'll make it up to you. And when you see them applaudingyou, calling for you, adoring you, all those hideous years will fadefrom your mind, and you'll be Theodore Brandeis, the successful, Theodore Brandeis, the gifted, Theodore Brandeis, the great! You neednever think of her again. You'll never see her again. That beast! Thatwoman!"

And at that Theodore's face became distorted and dreadful with pain. Heraised two impotent, shaking arms high above his head. "That's just it!That's just it! You don't know what love is. You don't know what hateis. You don't know how I hate myself. Loathe myself. She's all that'smiserable, all that's unspeakable, all that's vile. And if she calledme to-day I'd come. That's it. " He covered his shamed face with his twohands, so that the words came from him slobberingly, sickeningly. "Ihate her! I hate her! And I want her. I want her. I want her!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

If Fanny Brandeis, the deliberately selfish, the calculatinglyambitious, was aghast at the trick fate had played her, she kept herthoughts to herself. Knowing her, I think she must have been grimlyamused at finding herself saddled with a helpless baby, a bewilderedpeasant woman, and an artist brother both helpless and bewildered. 

It was out of the question to house them in her small apartment. Shefound a furnished apartment near her own, and installed them there, witha working housekeeper in charge. She had a gift for management, and shearranged all these details with a brisk capability that swept everythingbefore it. A sunny bedroom for Mizzi. But then, a bright living room, too, for Theodore's hours of practice. No noise. Chicago's roar maddenedhim. Otti shied at every new contrivance that met her eye. She had tobe broken in to elevators, electric switches, hot and cold faucets, radiators. 

"No apartment ever built could cover all the requirements, " Fannyconfided to Fenger, after the first harrowing week. "What they reallyneed is a combination palace, houseboat, sanatorium, and creche. "

"Look here, " said Fenger. "If I can help, why--" a sudden thought struckhim. "Why don't you bring 'em all down to my place in the country? We'renot there half the time. It's too cool for my wife in September. Justthe thing for the child, and your brother could fiddle his head off. "

The Fengers had a roomy, wide-verandaed house near Lake Forest; oneof the many places of its kind that dot the section known as the northshore. Its lawn sloped gently down to the water's edge. The house wasgay with striped awnings, and scarlet geraniums, and chintz-coveredchairs. The bright, sparkling, luxurious little place seemed to satisfya certain beauty-sense in Fenger, as did the etchings on the walls inhis office. Fanny had spent a week-end there in July, with three or fourother guests, including Fascinating Facts. She had been charmed with it, and had announced that her energies thereafter would be directed solelytoward the possession of just such a house as this, with a lawn that waslipped by the lake, awnings and geraniums to give it a French cafe air;books and magazines enough to belie that. 

"And I'll always wear white, " she promised, gayly, "and there'll bepitchers on every table, frosty on the outside, and minty on the inside, and you're all invited. "

They had laughed at that, and so had she, but she had been grimly inearnest just the same. 

She shook her head now at Fenger's suggestion. "Imagine Mrs. Fenger'sface at sight of Mizzi, and Theodore with his violin, and Otti with hershawls and paraphernalia. Though, " she added, seriously, "it's mightykind of you, and generous--and just like a man. "

"It isn't kindness nor generosity that makes me want to do things foryou. "

"Modest, " murmured Fanny, wickedly, "as always. "

Fenger bent his look upon her. "Don't try the ingenue on me, Fanny. "

Theodore's manager, Kurt Stein, was to have followed him in ten days. The war changed that. The war was to change many things. Fanny seemed tosense the influx of musicians that was to burst upon the United Statesfollowing the first few weeks of the catastrophe, and she set aboutforestalling it. Advertising. That was what Theodore needed. She hadfaith enough in his genius. But her business sense told her that thisgenius must be enhanced by the proper setting. She set about creatingthis setting. She overlooked no chance to fix his personality in thekaleidoscopic mind of the American public--or as much of it as she couldreach. His publicity man was a dignified German-American whose methodswere legitimate and uninspired. Fanny's enthusiasm and superb confidencein Theodore's genius infected Fenger, Fascinating Facts, even NathanHaynes himself. Nathan Haynes had never posed as a patron of the arts, in spite of his fantastic millions. But by the middle of September therewere few of his friends, or his wife's friends, who had not heard ofthis Theodore Brandeis. In Chicago, Illinois, no one lives in houses, itis said, except the city's old families, and new millionaires. The restof the vast population is flat-dwelling. To say that Nathan Haynes'spoken praise reached the city's house-dwellers would carry with it asignificance plain to any Chicagoan. 

As for Fanny's method; here is a typical example of her somewhat crudeeffectiveness in showmanship. Otti had brought with her from Viennaher native peasant costume. It is a costume seen daily in the Austriancapital, on the Ring, in the Stadt Park, wherever Viennese nursesconvene with their small charges. To the American eye it is a musicalcomedy costume, picturesque, bouffant, amazing. Your Austrian takesit quite for granted. Regardless of the age of the nurse, the skirt isshort, coming a few inches below the knees, and built like a lamp shade, in color usually a bright scarlet, with rows of black velvet ribbon atthe bottom. Beneath it are worn skirts and skirts, and skirts, so thatthe opera-bouffe effect is complete. The bodice is black velvet, lacedover a chemise of white. The head-gear a soaring winged affair ofstiffly starched white, that is a pass between the Breton peasantwoman's cap and an aeroplane. Black stockings and slippers finish thecostume. 

Otti and Mizzi spent the glorious September days in Lincoln park, Otti garbed in staid American stripes and apron, Mizzi resplendent insmartest of children's dresses provided for her lavishly by her aunt. Her fat and dimpled hands smoothed the blue, or pink or white folds witha complacency astonishing in one of her years. "That's her mother inher, " Fanny thought. 

One rainy autumn day Fanny entered her brother's apartment to find Ottiresplendent in her Viennese nurse's costume. Mizzi had been cross andfretful, and the sight of the familiar scarlet and black and white, andthe great winged cap seemed to soothe her. 

"Otti!" Fanny exclaimed. "You gorgeous creature! What is it? A dressrehearsal?" Otti got the import, if not the English. 

"So gehen wir im Wien, " she explained, and struck a killing pose. 

"Everybody? All the nurses? Alle?"

"Aber sure, " Otti displayed her half dozen English words wheneverpossible. 

Fanny stared a moment. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "To-morrow'sSaturday, " she said, in German. "If it's fair and warm you put on thatcostume and take Mizzi to the park. . . . Certainly the animal cages, ifyou want to. If any one annoys you, come home. If a policeman asks youwhy you are dressed that way tell him it is the costume worn by nursesin Vienna. Give him your name. Tell him who your master is. If hedoesn't speak German--and he won't, in Chicago--some one will translatefor you. "

Not a Sunday paper in Chicago that did not carry a startling picture ofthe resplendent Otti and the dimpled and smiling Mizzi. The omnipresentstaff photographer seemed to sniff his victim from afar. He pounced onTheodore Brandeis' baby daughter, accompanied by her Viennese nurse(in costume) and he played her up in a Sunday special that was worththousands of dollars, Fanny assured the bewildered and resentfulTheodore, as he floundered wildly through the billowing waves of theSunday newspaper flood. Theodore's first appearance was to be in Chicagoas soloist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, in the season's openingprogram in October. Any music-wise Chicagoan will tell you thatthe Chicago Symphony Orchestra is not only a musical organizationfunctioning marvelously (when playing Beethoven). It is an institution. Its patrons will admit the existence, but not the superiority ofsimilar organizations in Boston, Philadelphia and New York. On Fridayafternoons, during the season, Orchestra Hall, situate on MichiganBoulevard, holds more pretty girls and fewer men than one might expectto see at any one gathering other than, perhaps, a wholesale debutantetea crush. A Friday afternoon ticket is as impossible of attainment forone not a subscriber as a seat in heaven for a sinner. Saturday night'saudience is staider, more masculine, less staccato. Gallery, balcony, parquet, it represents the city's best. Its men prefer Beethoven toBerlin. Its women could wear pearl necklaces, and don't. Between theaudience and the solemn black-and-white rows on the platform thereexists an entente cordiale. The Konzert-Meister bows to his friend inthe third row, as he tucks his violin under his chin. The fifth row, aisle, smiles and nods to the sausage-fingered 'cellist. 

"Fritz is playing well to-night. "

In a rarefied form, it is the atmosphere that existed between audienceand players in the days of the old and famous Daly stock company. 

Such was the character of the audience Theodore was to face on his firstappearance in America. Fanny explained its nature to him. He shruggedhis shoulders in a gesture as German as it was expressive. 

Theodore seemed to have become irrevocably German during the years ofhis absence from America. He had a queer stock of little foreign tricks. He lifted his hat to men acquaintances on the street. He had learned tosmack his heels smartly together and to bow stiffly from the waist, and to kiss the hand of the matrons--and they adored him for it. He wasquite innocent of pose in these things. He seemed to have imbibedthem, together with his queer German haircut, and his incredibly Germanclothes. 

Fanny allowed him to retain the bow, and the courtly hand-kiss, but sheinsisted that he change the clothes and the haircut. 

"You'll have to let it grow, Ted. I don't mean that I want you to have amane, like Ysaye. But I do think you ought to discard that convictcut. Besides, it isn't becoming. And if you're going to be an Americanviolinist you'll have to look it--with a foreign finish. " He let hishair grow. Fanny watched with interest for the appearance of the unrulylock which had been wont to straggle over his white forehead inhis schoolboy days. The new and well-cut American clothes effectedsurprisingly little change. Fanny, surveying him, shook her head. 

"When you stepped off the ship you looked like a German in Germanclothes. Now you look like a German in American clothes. I don't know--Ido believe it's your face, Ted. I wouldn't have thought that ten yearsor so in any country could change the shape of one's nose, and mouth andcheekbones. Do you suppose it's the umlauts?"

"Cut it out!" laughed Ted, that being his idea of modern American slang. He was fascinated by these crisp phrases, but he was ten years or sobehind the times, and he sometimes startled his hearers by an exhibitionof slang so old as to be almost new. It was all the more startling incontrast with his conversational English, which was as carefully correctas a born German's. 

As for the rest, it was plain that he was interested, but unhappy. Hepracticed for hours daily. He often took Mizzi to the park and came backstorming about the dirt, the noise, the haste, the rudeness, the crowds, the mismanagement of the entire city. Dummheit, he called it. Theyprofaned the lake. They allowed the people to trample the grass. Theythrew papers and banana skins about. And they wasted! His years inGermany had taught him to regard all these things as sacrilege, and thelast as downright criminal. He was lonesome for his Germany. That wasplain. He hated it, and loved it, much as he hated and loved the womanwho had so nearly spoiled his life. The maelstrom known as the southwestcorner of State and Madison streets appalled him. 

"Gott!" he exclaimed. "Es ist unglaublich! Aber ganz unglaublich! Ichwerde bald veruckt. " He somehow lapsed into German when excited. 

Fanny took him to the Haynes-Cooper plant one day, and it lefthim dazed, and incredulous. She quoted millions at him. He was notinterested. He looked at the office workers, the mail-room girls, andshook his head, dumbly. They were using bicycles now, with a bundle rackin the front, in the vast stock rooms, and the roller skates had beendiscarded as too slow. The stock boys skimmed around corners on theselightweight bicycles, up one aisle, and down the next, snatching bundlesout of bins, shooting bundles into bins, as expertly as players in agymkhana. 

Theodore saw the uncanny rapidity with which the letter-opening machinesdid their work. He watched the great presses that turned out thecatalogue--the catalogue whose message meant millions; he sat inFenger's office and stared at the etchings, and said, "Certainly, " withpoliteness, when Fenger excused himself in the midst of a conversationto pick up the telephone receiver and talk to their shoe factory inMaine. He ended up finally in Fanny's office, no longer a dingy andundesirable corner, but a quietly brisk center that sent out vibrationsover the entire plant. Slosson, incidentally, was no longer of theinfants' wear. He had been transferred to a subordinate position in thegrocery section. 

"Well, " said Fanny, seating herself at her desk, and smiling radiantlyupon her brother. "Well, what do you think of us?"

And then Theodore Brandeis, the careless, the selfish, the blind, said amost amazing thing. 

"Fanny, I'll work. I'll soon get some of these millions that are lyingabout everywhere in this country. And then I'll take you out of this. Ipromise you. "

Fanny stared at him, a picture of ludicrous astonishment. 

"Why, you talk as if you were--sorry for me!"

"I am, dear. God knows I am. I'll make it up to you, somehow. "

It was the first time in all her dashing and successful career thatFanny Brandeis had felt the sting of pity. She resented it, hotly. Andfrom Theodore, the groper, the--"But at any rate, " something within hersaid, "he has always been true to himself. "

Theodore's manager arrived in September, on a Holland boat, on which hehad been obliged to share a stuffy inside cabin with three others. KurtStein was German born, but American bred, and he had the American loveof luxurious travel. He was still testy when he reached Chicago and hischarge. 

"How goes the work?" he demanded at once, of Theodore. He eyed himsharply. "That's better. You have lost some of the look you had when youleft Wien. The ladies would have liked that look, here in America. Butit is bad for the work. "

He took Fanny aside before he left. His face was serious. It wasplain that he was disturbed. "That woman, " he began. "Pardon me, Mrs. Brandeis. She came to me. She says she is starving. She is alone there, in Vienna. Her--well, she is alone. The war is everywhere. They say itwill last for years. She wept and pleaded with me to take her here. "

"No!" cried Fanny. "Don't let him hear it. He mustn't know. He----"

"Yes, I know. She is a paradox, that woman. I tell you, she almostprevailed on me. There is something about her; something that repelsand compels. " That struck him as being a very fine phrase indeed, and herepeated it appreciatively. 

"I'll send her money, somehow, " said Fanny. 

"Yes. But they say that money is not reaching them over there. I don'tknow what becomes of it. It vanishes. " He turned to leave. "Oh, amessage for you. On my boat was Schabelitz. It looks very much as if hisgreat fortune, the accumulation of years, would be swept away by thiswar. Already they are tramping up and down his lands in Poland. Hismoney--much of it--is invested in great hotels in Poland and Russia, andthey are using them for barracks and hospitals. "

"Schabelitz! You mean a message for Theodore? From him? That'swonderful. "

"For Theodore, and for you, too. "

"For me! I made a picture of him once when I was a little girl. I didn'tsee him again for years. Then I heard him play. It was on his last tourhere. I wanted to speak to him. But I was afraid. And my face was redwith weeping. "

"He remembers you. And he means to see Theodore and you. He can do muchfor Theodore in this country, and I think he will. His message for youwas this: `Tell her I still have the picture that she made of me, withthe jack-in-the-box in my hand, and that look on my face. Tell her Ihave often wondered about that little girl in the red cap and the blackcurls. I've wondered if she went on, catching that look back of people'sfaces. If she did, she should be more famous than her brother. "'

"He said that! About me!"

"I am telling you as nearly as I can. He said, `Tell her it was awoman who ruined Bauer's career, and caused him to end his days a musicteacher in--in--Gott! I can't remember the name of that town----"

"Winnebago. "

"Winnebago. That was it. `Tell her not to let the brother spoil his lifethat way. ' So. That is the message. He said you would understand. "

Theodore's face was ominous when she returned to him, after Stein hadleft. 

"I wish you and Stein wouldn't stand out there in the hall whisperingabout me as if I were an idiot patient. What were you saying?"

"Nothing, Ted. Really. "

He brooded a moment. Then his face lighted up with a flash of intuition. He flung an accusing finger at Fanny. 

"He has seen her. "

"Ted! You promised. "

"She's in trouble. This war. And she hasn't any money. I know. Lookhere. We've got to send her money. Cable it. "

"I will. Just leave it all to me. "

"If she's here, in this country, and you're lying to me----"

"She isn't. My word of honor, Ted. "

He relaxed. 

Life was a very complicated thing for Fanny these days. Ted wasleaning on her; Mizzi, Otti, and now Fenger. Nathan Haynes was poking adisturbing finger into that delicate and complicated mechanism ofSystem which Fenger had built up in the Haynes-Cooper plant. And Fenger, snarling, was trying to guard his treasure. He came to Fanny with hisgrievance. Fanny had always stimulated him, reassured him, given him themental readjustment that he needed. 

He strode into her office one morning in late September. Ordinarily hesent for her. He stood by her desk now, a sheaf of papers in his hand, palpably stage props, and lifted significant eyebrows in the directionof the stenographer busy at her typewriter in the corner. 

"You may leave that, Miss Mahin, " Fanny said. Miss Mahin, acomprehending young woman, left it, and the room as well. Fenger satdown. He was under great excitement, though he was quite controlled. Fanny, knowing him, waited quietly. His eyes held hers. 

"It's come, " Fenger began. "You know that for the last year Haynes hasbeen milling around with a herd of sociologists, philanthropists, andstudents of economics. He had some scheme in the back of his head, but Ithought it was just another of his impractical ideas. It appears thatit wasn't. Between the lot of them they've evolved a savings andprofit-sharing plan that's founded on a kind of practical universalbrotherhood dream. Haynes's millions are bothering him. If they actuallyput this thing through I'll get out. It'll mean that everything I'vebuilt up will be torn down. It will mean that any six-dollar-a-weekgirl----"

"As I understand it, " interrupted Fanny, "it will mean that there willbe no more six-dollar-a-week girls. "

"That's it. And let me tell you, once you get the ignorant, unskilledtype to believing they're actually capable of earning decent money, actually worth something, they're worse than useless. They'redangerous. "

"You don't believe that. "

"I do. "

"But it's a theory that belongs to the Dark Ages. We've disproved it. We've got beyond that. "

"Yes. So was war. We'd got beyond it. But it's here. I tell you, thereare only two classes: the governing and the governed. That has alwaysbeen true. It always will be. Let the Socialists rave. It has never gotthem anywhere. I know. I come from the mucker class myself. I know whatthey stand for. Boost them, and they'll turn on you. If there's anythingin any of them, he'll pull himself up by his own bootstraps. "

"They're not all potential Fengers. "

"Then let 'em stay what they are. "

Fanny's pencil was tracing and retracing a tortured and meaninglessfigure on the paper before her. "Tell me, do you remember a girl namedSarah Sapinsky?"

"Never heard of her. "

"That's fitting. Sarah Sapinsky was a very pretty, very dissatisfiedgirl who was a slave to the bundle chute. One day there was a periodof two seconds when a bundle didn't pop out at her, and she had time tothink. Anyway, she left. I asked about her. She's on the streets. "

"Well?"

"Thanks to you and your system. "

"Look here, Fanny. I didn't come to you for that kind of talk. Don't, for heaven's sake, give me any sociological drivel to-day. I'm not herejust to tell you my troubles. You know what my contract is here withHaynes-Cooper. And you know the amount of stock I hold. If this schemeof Haynes's goes in, I go out. Voluntarily. But at my own price. TheHaynes-Cooper plant is at the height of its efficiency now. " He droppedhis voice. "But the mail order business is in its infancy. There's nolimit to what can be done with it in the next few years. Understand?Do you get what I'm trying to tell you?" He leaned forward, tense andterribly in earnest. 

Fanny stared at him. Then her hand went to her head in a gesture ofweariness. "Not to-day. Please. And not here. Don't think I'm ungratefulfor your confidence. But--this month has been a terrific strain. Just let me pass the fifteenth of October. Let me see Theodore on theway----"

Fenger's fingers closed about her wrist. Fanny got to her feet angrily. They glared at each other a moment. Then the humor of the picture theymust be making struck Fanny. She began to laugh. Fenger's glare became afrown. He turned abruptly and left the office. Fanny looked down at herwrist ruefully. Four circlets of red marked its smooth whiteness. Shelaughed again, a little uncertainly this time. 

When she got home that night she found, in her mail, a letter forTheodore, postmarked Vienna, and stamped with the mark of the censor. Theodore had given her his word of honor that he would not write Olga, or give her his address. Olga was risking Fanny's address. She stoodlooking at the letter now. Theodore was coming in for dinner, as he didfive nights out of the week. As she stood in the hallway, she heardthe rattle of his key in the lock. She flew down the hall and into herbedroom, her letters in her hand. She opened her dressing table drawerand threw them into it, switched on the light and turned to faceTheodore in the doorway. 

"'Lo, Sis. "

"Hello, Teddy. Kiss me. Phew! That pipe again. How'd the work goto-day?"

"So--so. Any mail for me?"

"No. "

That night, when he had gone, she took out the letter and stood turningit over and over in her hands. She had no thought of reading it. It wasits destruction she was contemplating. Finally she tucked it away in herhandkerchief box. Perhaps, after the fifteenth of October. Everythingdepended on that. 

And the fifteenth of October came. It had dragged for weeks, and then, at the end, it galloped. By that time Fanny had got used to seeingTheodore's picture and name outside Orchestra Hall, and in the musicalcolumns of the papers. Brandeis. Theodore Brandeis, the violinist. Thename sang in her ears. When she walked on Michigan Avenue during thatlast week she would force herself to march straight on past OrchestraHall, contenting herself with a furtive and oblique glance at theannouncement board. The advance programs hung, a little bundle of them, suspended by a string from a nail on the wall near the box office, sothat ticket purchasers might rip one off and peruse the week's musicalmenu. Fanny longed to hear the comment of the little groups that wereconstantly forming and dispersing about the box office window. She neverdreamed of allowing herself to hover near it. She thought sometimes ofthe woman in the businesslike gray skirt and the black sateen apron whohad drudged so cheerfully in the little shop so that Theodore Brandeis'name might shine now from the very top of the program, in heavy blackletters:

Soloist: MR. THEODORE BRANDEIS, Violin

The injustice of it. Fanny had never ceased to rage at that. 

In the years to come Theodore Brandeis was to have that adulation whichthe American public, temperamentally so cold, gives its favorite, oncethe ice of its reserve is thawed. He was to look down on that surging, tempestuous crowd which sometimes packs itself about the foot of theplatform in Carnegie Hall, demanding more, more, more, after a generousconcert is concluded. He had to learn to protect himself from thosehysterical, enraptured, wholly feminine adorers who swarmed about him, scaling the platform itself. But of all this there was nothing on thatFriday and Saturday in October. Orchestra Hall audiences are not, asa rule, wildly demonstrative. They were no exception. They listenedattentively, appreciatively. They talked, critically and favorably, onthe way home. They applauded generously. They behaved as an OrchestraHall audience always behaves, and would behave, even if it wereconfronted with a composite Elman-Kreisler-Ysaye soloist. Theodore'splaying was, as a whole, perhaps the worst of his career. Not that hedid not rise to magnificent heights at times. But it was what is knownas uneven playing. He was torn emotionally, nervously, mentally. Hisplaying showed it. 

Fanny, seated in the auditorium, her hands clasped tight, her hearthammering, had a sense of unreality as she waited for Theodore to appearfrom the little door at the left. He was to play after the intermission. Fanny had arrived late, with Theodore, that Friday afternoon. She feltshe could not sit through the first part of the program. They waitedtogether in the anteroom. Theodore, looking very slim and boyish in hisfrock coat, walked up and down, up and down. Fanny wanted to straightenhis tie. She wanted to pick an imaginary thread off his lapel. Shewanted to adjust the white flower in his buttonhole (he jerked it outpresently, because it interfered with his violin, he said). She wantedto do any one of the foolish, futile things that would have served torelieve her own surcharged feelings. But she had learned control inthese years. And she yielded to none of them. 

The things they said and did were, perhaps, almost ludicrous. 

"How do I look?" Theodore demanded, and stood up before her. 

"Beautiful!" said Fanny, and meant it. 

Theodore passed a hand over his cheek. "Cut myself shaving, damn it!"

"It doesn't show. "

He resumed his pacing. Now and then he stopped, and rubbed his handstogether with a motion we use in washing. Finally:

"I wish you'd go out front, " he said, almost pettishly. Fanny rose, without a word. She looked very handsome. Excitement had given hercolor. The pupils of her eyes were dilated and they shone brilliantly. She looked at her brother. He stared at her. They swayed together. Theykissed, and clung together for a long moment. Then Fanny turned andwalked swiftly away, and stumbled a little as she groped for thestairway. 

The bell in the foyer rang. The audience strolled to the auditorium. They lagged, Fanny thought. They crawled. She told herself that she mustnot allow her nerves to tease her like that. She looked about her, withoutward calm. Her eyes met Fenger's. He was seated, alone. It was hewho had got a subscription seat for her from a friend. She had said shepreferred to be alone. She looked at him now and he at her, and they didnot nod nor smile. The house settled itself flutteringly. 

A man behind Fanny spoke. "Who's this Brandeis?"

"I don't know. A new one. German, I guess. They say he's good. Kreisler's the boy who can play for me, though. "

The orchestra was seated now. Stock, the conductor, came out fromthe little side door. Behind him walked Theodore. There was a little, impersonal burst of applause. Stock mounted his conductor's platform andglanced paternally down at Theodore, who stood at the left, violin andbow in hand, bowing. The audience seemed to warm to his boyishness. They applauded again, and he bowed in a little series of jerky bobs thatwaggled his coat-tails. Heels close together, knees close together. AGerman bow. And then a polite series of bobs addressed to Stock and hisorchestra. Stock's long, slim hands poised in air. His fingertips seemedto draw from the men before him the first poignant strains of Theodore'sconcerto. Theodore stood, slim and straight. Fanny's face, lifted towardhim, was a prayerful thing. Theodore suddenly jerked back the left lapelof his coat in a little movement Fanny remembered as typical in hisboyish days, nuzzled his violin tenderly, and began to play. 

It is the most excruciating of instruments, the violin, or the mostexquisite. I think Fanny actually heard very little of his playing. Herhands were icy. Her cheeks were hot. The man before her was not TheodoreBrandeis, the violinist, but Teddy, the bright-haired, knickeredschoolboy who played to those people seated in the yellow wooden pews ofthe temple in Winnebago. The years seemed to fade away. He crouched overhis violin to get the 'cello tones for which he was to become famous, and it was the same hunched, almost awkward pose that the boy had used. Fanny found herself watching his feet as his shifted his position. Hewas nervous. And he was not taken out of himself. She knew that becauseshe saw the play of his muscles about the jaw-bone. It followed that hewas not playing his best. She could not tell that from listening to him. Her music sense was dulled. She got it from these outward signs. Thewoman next to her was reading a program absorbedly, turning the pagesregularly, and with care. Fanny could have killed her with her twohands. She tried to listen detachedly. The music was familiar to her. Theodore had played it for her, again and again. The last movementhad never failed to shake her emotionally. It was the glorious andtriumphant cry of a people tried and unafraid. She heard it now, unmoved. 

And then Theodore was bowing his little jerky bows, and he was shakinghands with Stock, and with the First Violin. He was gone. Fanny sat withher hands in her lap. The applause continued. Theodore appeared again. Bowed. He bent very low now, with his arms hanging straight. There wassomething gracious and courtly about him. And foreign. He must keepthat, Fanny thought. They like it. She saw him off again. More applause. Encores were against the house rules. She knew that. Then it meant theywere pleased. He was to play again. A group of Hungarian dances thistime. They were wild, gypsy things, rising to frenzy at times. He playedthem with spirit and poetry. To listen sent the blood singing throughthe veins. Fanny found herself thinking clearly and exaltedly. 

"This is what my mother drudged for, and died for, and it was worth it. And you must do the same, if necessary. Nothing else matters. What heneeds now is luxury. He's worn out with fighting. Ease. Peace. Leisure. You've got to give them to him. It's no use, Fanny. You lose. "

In that moment she reached a mark in her spiritual career that she wasto outdistance but once. 

Theodore was bowing again. Fanny had scarcely realized that he hadfinished. The concert was over. 

". . . The group of dances, " the man behind her was saying as he helpedthe girl next him with her coat, "but I didn't like that first thing. Church music, not concert. "

Fanny found her way back to the ante-room. Theodore was talking to theconductor, and one or two others. He looked tired, and his eyes foundFanny's with appeal and relief in them. She came over to him. There wereintroductions, congratulations. Fanny slipped her hand over his with afirm pressure. 

"Come, dear. You must be tired. "

At the door they found Fenger waiting. Theodore received his well-wordedcongratulations with an ill-concealed scowl. 

"My car's waiting, " said Fenger. "Won't you let me take you home?"

A warning pressure from Theodore. "Thanks, no. We have a car. Theodore'svery tired. "

"I can quite believe that. "

"Not tired, " growled Theodore, like a great boy. "I'm hungry. Starved. Inever eat before playing. "

Kurt Stein, Theodore's manager, had been hovering over him solicitously. "You must remember to-morrow night. I should advise you to rest now, asquickly as possible. " He, too, glared at Fenger. 

Fenger fell back, almost humbly. "I've great news for you. I must seeyou Sunday. After this is over. I'll telephone you. Don't try to come towork to-morrow. " All this is a hurried aside to Fanny. 

Fanny nodded and moved away with Theodore. 

Theodore leaned back in the car, but there was no hint of relaxation. Hewas as tense and vibrant as one of his own violin strings. 

"It went, didn't it? They're like clods, these American audiences. "It was on the tip of Fanny's tongue to say that he had professedindifference to audiences, but she wisely refrained. "Gad! I'm hungry. What makes this Fenger hang around so? I'm going to tell him to keepaway, some day. The way he stares at you. Let's go somewhere to-night, Fan. Or have some people in. I can't sit about after I've played. Olgaalways used to have a supper party, or something. "

"All right, Ted. Would you like the theater?"

For the first time in her life she felt a little whisper of sympathy forthe despised Olga. Perhaps, after all, she had not been wholly to blame. 

He was to leave Sunday morning for Cleveland, where he would playMonday. He had insisted on taking Mizzi with him, though Fanny hadrailed and stormed. Theodore had had his way. 

"She's used to it. She likes to travel, don't you, Mizzi? You shouldhave seen her in Russia, and all over Germany, and in Sweden. She's abetter traveler than her dad. "

Saturday morning's papers were kind, but cool. They used words such aspromising, uneven, overambitious, gifted. Theodore crumpled the lotinto a ball and hurled them across the room, swearing horribly. Then hesmoothed them out, clipped them, and saved them carefully. His playingthat night was tinged with bravado, and the Saturday evening audiencerose to it. There was about his performance a glow, a spirit that hadbeen lacking on the previous day. 

Inconsistently enough, he missed the antagonism of the European critics. He was puzzled and resentful. 

"They hardly say a word about the meaning of the concerto. They acceptit as a piece of music, Jewish in theme. It might as well be entitledSpringtime. "

"This isn't France or Russia, " said Fanny. "Antagonism here isn'treligious. It's personal, almost. You've been away so many years you'veforgotten. They don't object to us as a sect, or a race, but as a type. That's the trouble, Clarence Heyl says. We're free to build as manysynagogues as we like, and worship in them all day, if we want to. Butwe don't want to. The struggle isn't racial any more, but individual. For some reason or other one flashy, loud-talking Hebrew in a restaurantcan cause more ill feeling than ten thousand of them holding a religiousmass meeting in Union Square. "

Theodore pondered a moment. "Then here each one of us is responsible. Isthat it?"

"I suppose so. "

"But look here. I've been here ten weeks, and I've met your friends, andnot one of them is a Jew. How's that?"

Fanny flushed a little. "Oh, it just worked out that way. "

Theodore looked at her hard. "You mean you worked it out that way?"

"Yes. "

"Fan, we're a couple of weaklings, both of us, to have sprung froma mother like ours. I don't know which is worse; my selfishness, or yours. " Then, at the hurt that showed in her face, he was allcontrition. "Forgive me, Sis. You've been so wonderful to me, and toMizzi, and to all of us. I'm a good-for-nothing fiddler, that's all. You're the strong one. "

Fenger had telephoned her on Saturday. He and his wife were at theirplace in the country. Fanny was to take the train out there Sundaymorning. She looked forward to it with a certain relief. The weather hadturned unseasonably warm, as Chicago Octobers sometimes do. Up to thelast moment she had tried to shake Theodore's determination to takeMizzi and Otti with him. But he was stubborn. 

"I've got to have her, " he said. 

Michael Fenger's voice over the telephone had been as vibrant withsuppressed excitement as Michael Fenger's dry, hard tones could be. 

"Fanny, it's done--finished, " he said. "We had a meeting to-day. This ismy last month with Haynes-Cooper. "

"But you can't mean it. Why, you ARE Haynes-Cooper. How can they let yougo?"

"I can't tell you now. We'll go over it all to-morrow. I've new plans. They've bought me out. D'you see? At a price that--well, I thought I'dgot used to juggling millions at Haynes-Cooper. But this surprised evenme. Will you come? Early? Take the eight-ten. "

"That's too early. I'll get the ten. "

The mid-October country was a lovely thing. Fanny, with the strain ofTheodore's debut and leave-taking behind her, and the prospect of ahigh-tension business talk with Fenger ahead, drank in the beauty of thewayside woods gratefully. 

Fenger met her at the station. She had never seen him so boyish, soexuberant. He almost pranced. 

"Hop in, " he said. He had driven down in a runabout. "Brother get offall right? Gad! He CAN play. And you've made the whole thing possible. "He turned to look at her. "You're a wonder. "

"In your present frame of mind and state of being, " laughed Fanny, "you'd consider any one a wonder. You're so pleased with yourself you'refairly gummy. "

Fenger laughed softly and sped the car on. They turned in at the gate. There was scarlet salvia, now, to take the place of the red geraniums. The gay awnings, too, were gone. 

"This is our last week, " Fenger explained. "It's too cold out here forKatherine. We're moving into town to-morrow. We're more or less campingout here, with only the Jap to take care of us. "

"Don't apologize, please. I'm grateful just to be here, after the weekI've had. Let's have the news now. "

"We'll have lunch first. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse Katherine. Sheprobably won't be down for lunch. " The Jap had spread the luncheon tableon the veranda, but a brisk lake breeze had sprung up, and he was busynow transferring his table from the porch to the dining room. "Would youhave believed it, " said Fenger, "when you left town? Good old lake. Mrs. Fenger coming down?" to the man. 

The Jap shook his head. "Nossa. "

Their talk at luncheon was all about Theodore and his future. Fengersaid that what Theodore needed was a firm and guiding hand. "A sort ofcombination manager and slave-driver. An ambitious and intelligent wifewould do it. That's what we all need. A woman to work for, and to makeus work. "

Fanny smiled. "Mizzi will have to be woman enough, I'm afraid. PoorTed. "

They rose. "Now for the talk, " said Fenger. But the telephone hadsounded shrilly a moment before, and the omnipresent little Jap summonedFenger. He was back in a minute, frowning. "It's Haynes. I'm sorry. I'mafraid it'll take a half hour of telephoning. Don't you want to take acat-nap? Or a stroll down to the lake?"

"Don't bother about me. I'll probably take a run outdoors. "

"Be back in half an hour. "

But when she returned he was still at the telephone. She got a book andstretched luxuriously among the cushions of one of the great loungingchairs, and fell asleep. When she awoke Fenger was seated opposite her. He was not reading. He was not smoking. He evidently had been sittingthere, looking at her. 

"Oh, gracious! Mouth open?"

"No. "

Fanny fought down an impulse to look as cross as she felt. "What time?Why didn't you wake me?" The house was very quiet. She patted her hairdeftly, straightened her collar. "Where's everybody? Isn't Mrs. Fengerdown yet?"

"No. Don't you want to hear about my plans now?"

"Of course I do. That's what I came for. I don't see why you didn't tellme hours ago. You're as slow in action as a Chinese play. Out with it. "

Fenger got up and began to pace the floor, not excitedly, but with anair of repression. He looked very powerful and compelling, there in thelow-ceilinged, luxurious room. "I'll make it brief. We met yesterday inHaynes's office. Of course we had discussed the thing before. You knowthat. Haynes knew that I'd never run the plant under the new conditions. Why, it would kill every efficiency rule I've ever made. Here I hadtrimmed that enormous plant down to fighting weight. There wasn't auseless inch or ounce about the whole enormous billionaire bulk of it. And then to have Haynes come along, with his burdensome notions, andhis socialistic slop. They'd cripple any business, no matter how greata start it had. I told him all that. We didn't waste much time onargument, though. We knew we'd never get together. In half an hour wewere talking terms. You know my contract and the amount of stock I hold. Well, we threshed that out, and Haynes is settling for two million and ahalf. "

He came to a stop before Fanny's chair. 

"Two million and a half what?" asked Fanny, feebly. 

"Dollars. " He smiled rather grimly. "In a check. "

"One--check?" "One check. "

Fanny digested that in her orderly mind. "I thought I was used tothinking in millions. But this--I'd like to touch the check, just once. "

"You shall. " He drew up a chair near her. "Now get this, Fanny. There'snothing that you and I can't do with two millions and a half. Nothing. We know this mail order game as no two people in the world know it. Andit's in its infancy. I know the technical side of it. You know thehuman side of it. I tell you that in five years' time you and I can bea national power. Not merely the heads of a prosperous mail orderbusiness, but figures in finance. See what's happened to Haynes-Cooperin the last five years! Why, it's incredible. It's grotesque. And it'snothing to what you and I can do, working together. You know people, somehow. You've a genius for sensing their wants, or feelings, oremotions--I don't know just what it is. And I know facts. And we havetwo million and a half--I can make it nearly three millions--to startwith. Haynes, fifteen years ago, had a couple of hundred thousand. Infive years we can make the Haynes-Cooper organization look as modern andcompetent as a cross-roads store. This isn't a dream. These are facts. You know how my mind works. Like a cold chisel. I can see this wholecountry--and Europe, too, after the war--God, yes!--stretched out beforeus like a patient before expert surgeons. You to attend to its heart, and I to its bones and ligaments. I can put you where no other womanhas ever been. I've a hundred new plans this minute, and a hundredmore waiting to be born. So have you. I tell you it's just a matter ofbuildings. Of bricks and stone, and machinery and people to make themachinery go. Once we get those--and it's only a matter of months--wecan accomplish things I daren't even dream of. What was Haynes-Cooperfifteen years ago? What was the North American Cloak and Suit Company?The Peter Johnston Stores, of New York? Wells-Kayser? Nothing. Theydidn't exist. And this year Haynes-Cooper is declaring a twenty-five percent dividend. Do you get what that means? But of course you do. That'sthe wonder of it. I never need explain things to you. You've a geniusfor understanding. "

Fanny had been sitting back in her chair, crouching almost, hereyes fixed upon the man's face, so terrible in its earnestness andindomitable strength. When he stopped talking now, and stood lookingdown at her, she rose, too, her eyes still on his face. She was twistingthe fingers of one hand in the fingers of the other, in a frightenedsort of way. 

"I'm not really a business woman. I--wait a minute, please--I have aknack of knowing what people are thinking and wanting. But that isn'tbusiness. " "It isn't, eh? It's the finest kind of business sense. It'sthe thing the bugs call psychology, and it's as necessary to-day ascapital was yesterday. You can get along without the last. You can'twithout the first. One can be acquired. The other you've got to be bornwith. "

"But I--you know, of late, it's only the human side of it that hasappealed to me. I don't know why. I seem to have lost interest in theactual mechanics of it. "

Fenger stood looking at her, his head lowered. A scarlet stripe, thatshe had never noticed before, seemed to stand out suddenly, like awelt, on his forehead. Then he came toward her. She raised her hand ina little futile gesture. She took an involuntary step backward, encountered the chair she had just left, and sank into it coweringly. She sat there, looking up at him, fascinated. His hand, on the wing ofthe great chair, was shaking. So, too, was his voice. 

"Fanny, Katherine's not here. "

Fanny still looked up at him, wordlessly. 

"Katherine left here yesterday. She's in town. " Then, at the look inher face, "She was here when I telephoned you yesterday. Late yesterdayafternoon she had one of her fantastic notions. She insisted that shemust go into town. It was too cold for her here. Too damp. Too--well, she went. And I let her go. And I didn't telephone you again. I wantedyou to come. "

Fanny Brandeis, knowing him, must have felt a great qualm of terrorand helplessness. But she was angry, too, a wholesome ingredient in asituation such as this. The thing she said and did now was inspired. Shelaughed--a little uncertainly, it is true--but still she laughed. Andshe said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

"Well, I must say that's a rather shabby trick. Still, I suppose thetired business man has got to have his little melodrama. What do I do?H'm? Beat my breast and howl? Or pound on the door panel?"

Fenger stood looking at her. "Don't laugh at me, Fanny. "

She stood up, still smiling. It was rather a brilliant piece of work. Fenger, taken out of himself though he was, still was artist enough toappreciate it. 

"Why not laugh, " she said, "if I'm amused? And I am. Come now, Mr. Fenger. Be serious. And let's get back to the billions. I want to catchthe five-fifteen. "

"I AM serious. " "Well, if you expect me to play the hunted heroine, I'm sorry. " She pointed an accusing finger at him. "I know now. You'requitting Haynes-Cooper for the movies. And this is a rehearsal for avampire film. "

"You nervy little devil, you!" He reached out with one great, irresistible hand and gripped her shoulder. "You wonderful, gloriousgirl!" The hand that gripped her shoulder swung her to him. She saw hisface with veins she had never noticed before standing out, in knots, on his temples, and his eyes were fixed and queer. And he was talking, rather incoherently, and rapidly. He was saying the same thing over andover again: "I'm crazy about you. I've been looking for a woman likeyou--all my life. I'm crazy about you. I'm crazy----"

And then Fanny's fine composure and self control fled, and she thoughtof her mother. She began to struggle, too, and to say, like any othergirl, "Let me go! Let me go! You're hurting me. Let me go! You! You!"

And then, quite clearly, from that part of her brain where it had beentucked away until she should need it, came Clarence Heyl's whimsical bitof advice. Her mind released it now, complete. 

"If you double your fist this way, and tuck your thumb alongside, likethat, and aim for this spot right here, about two inches this side ofthe chin, bringing your arm back and up quickly, like a piston, theperson you hit will go down, limp. There's a nerve right here thatcommunicates with the brain. The blow makes you see stars, and brightlights----"

She went limp in his arms. She shut her eyes, flutteringly. "Allmen--like you--have a yellow streak, " she whispered, and opened hereyes, and looked up at him, smiling a little. He relaxed his hold, insurprise and relief. And with her eyes on that spot barely two inchesto the side of the chin she brought her right arm down, slowly, slowly, fist doubled, and then up like a piston--snap! His teeth came togetherwith a sharp little crack. His face, in that second, was a comic mask, surprised, stunned, almost idiotic. Then he went down, as Clarence Heylhad predicted, limp. Not with a crash, but slowly, crumpingly, so thathe almost dragged her with him. 

Fanny stood looking down at him a moment. Then she wiped her mouth withthe back of her hand. She walked out of the room, and down the hall. Shesaw the little Jap dart suddenly back from a doorway, and she stampedher foot and said, "S-s-cat!" as if he had been a rat. She gathered upher hat and bag from the hall table, and so, out of the door, and downthe walk, to the road. And then she began to run. She ran, and ran, andran. It was a longish stretch to the pretty, vine-covered station. Sheseemed unconscious of fatigue, or distance. She must have been at leasta half hour on the way. When she reached the station the ticket agenttold her there was no train until six. So she waited, quietly. She puton her hat (she had carried it in her hand all the way) and patted herhair into place. When the train came she found a seat quite alone, andsank into its corner, and rested her head against her open palm. It wasnot until then that she felt a stab of pain. She looked at her hand, andsaw that the skin of her knuckles was bruised and bleeding. 

"Well, if this, " she said to herself, "isn't the most idiotic thing thatever happened to a woman outside a near-novel. "

She looked at her knuckles, critically, as though the hand belonged tosome one else. Then she smiled. And even as she smiled a great lump cameinto her throat, and the bruise blurred before her eyes, and she wascrying rackingly, relievedly, huddled there in her red plush corner. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was eight o'clock when she let herself into her apartment. She hadgiven the maid a whole holiday. When Fanny had turned on the light inher little hallway she stood there a moment, against the door, her handspread flat against the panel. It was almost as though she patted it, lovingly, gratefully. Then she went on into the living room, and stoodlooking at its rosy lamplight. Then, still as though seeing it all forthe first time, into her own quiet, cleanly bedroom, with its creamenamel, and the chaise longue that she had had cushioned in rose becauseit contrasted so becomingly with her black hair. And there, on herdressing table, propped up against the brushes and bottles, was theyellow oblong of a telegram. From Theodore of course. She opened it witha rush of happiness. It was like a loving hand held out to her in need. It was a day letter. 

"We sail Monday on the St. Paul. Mizzi is with me. I broke my word toyou. But you lied to me about the letters. I found them the weekbefore the concert. I shall bring her back with me or stay to fight forGermany. Forgive me, dear sister. "

Just fifty words. His thrifty German training. 

"No!" cried Fanny, aloud. "No! No!" And the cry quavered and died away, and another took its place, and it, too, gave way to another, so thatshe was moaning as she stood there with the telegram in her shakinghand. She read it again, her lips moving, as old people sometimes read. Then she began to whimper, with her closed fist over her mouth, herwhole body shaking. All her fine courage gone now; all her rigidself-discipline; all her iron determination. She was not a tearfulwoman. And she had wept much on the train. So the thing thatwrenched and shook her now was all the more horrible because of itssoundlessness. She walked up and down the room, pushing her hair backfrom her forehead with the flat of her hand. From time to time shesmoothed out the crumpled yellow slip of paper and read it again. Hermind, if you could have seen into it, would have presented a confusedand motley picture. Something like this: But his concert engagements?. . . That was what had happened to Bauer. . . . How silly he had looked when herfist met his jaw. . . . It had turned cold; why didn't they have steam on?The middle of October. . . . Teddy, how could you do it! How could youdo it!. . . Was he still lying in a heap on the floor? But of course thesneaking little Jap had found him. . . . Somebody to talk to. That was whatshe wanted. Some one to talk to. . . . 

Some one to talk to. She stood there, in the middle of her lamp-lightedliving room, and she held out her hands in silent appeal. Some one totalk to. In her mind she went over the list of those whose lives hadtouched hers in the last few crowded years. Fenger, Fascinating Facts, Ella Monahan, Nathan Haynes; all the gay, careless men and women she hadmet from time to time through Fenger and Fascinating Facts. Not one ofthem could she turn to now. 

Clarence Heyl. She breathed a sigh of relief. Clarence Heyl. He hadhelped her once, to-day. And now, for the second time, something thathe had said long before came from its hiding place in her subconsciousmind. She had said:

"Some days I feel I've got to walk out of the office, and down thestreet, without a hat, and on and on, walking and walking, and runningand running till I come to the horizon. "

And Heyl had answered, in his quiet, reassuring way: "Some day thatfeeling will get too strong for you. When that time comes get on a trainmarked Denver. From there take another to Estes Park. That's the RockyMountains, where the horizon lives and has its being. Ask for Heyl'splace. They'll hand you from one to the other. I may be there, but morelikely I shan't. The key's in the mail box, tied to a string. You'llfind a fire laid with fat pine knots. My books are there. The bedding'sin the cedar chest. And the mountains will make you clean and wholeagain; and the pines. . . "

Fanny went to the telephone. Trains for Denver. She found the road shewanted, and asked for information. She was on her own ground here. Allher life she had had to find her own trains, check her own trunks, planher journeys. Sometimes she had envied the cotton-wool women who had hadall these things done for them, always. 

One-half of her mind was working clearly and coolly. The other half wasnumb. There were things to be done. They would take a day. More thana day, but she would neglect most of them. She must notify the office. There were tickets to be got. Reservations. Money at the bank. Packing. When the maid came in at eleven Fanny had suitcases and bags out, andher bedroom was strewn with shoes, skirts, coats. 

Late Monday afternoon Fenger telephoned. She did not answer. There camea note from him, then a telegram. She did not read them. Tuesday foundher on a train bound for Colorado. She remembered little of the firsthalf of her journey. She had brought with her books and magazines, andshe must have read hem, but her mind had evidently retained nothing ofwhat she had read. She must have spent hours looking out of the window, for she remembered, long afterward, the endlessness and the monotony ofthe Kansas prairies. They soothed her. She was glad there were no bitsof autumnal woodland, no tantalizing vistas, nothing to break the flatand boundless immensity of it. Here was something big, and bountiful, and real, and primal. Good Kansas dirt. Miles of it. Miles of it. Shefelt she would like to get out and tramp on it, hard. 

"Pretty cold up there in Estes Park, " the conductor had said. "Beensnowing up in the mountains. "

She had arranged to stop in Denver only long enough to change trains. A puffy little branch line was to take her from Denver to Loveland, andthere, she had been told, one of the big mountain-road steam automobileswould take her up the mountains to her destination. For one as mentallyalert as she normally was, the exact location of that destination wasvery hazy in her mind. Heyl's place. That was all. Ordinarily she wouldhave found the thought ridiculous. But she concentrated on it now; clungto it. 

At the first glimpse of the foot-hills Fanny's listless gaze becameinterested. If you have ever traveled on the jerky, cleanly, meanderinglittle road that runs between Denver and the Park you know that itwinds, and curves, so that the mountains seem to leap about, friskily, first confronting you on one side of the car window, then disappearingand seeming to taunt you from the windows of the opposite side. Fannylaughed aloud. The mountain steam-car was waiting at Loveland. Therewere few passengers at this time of year. The driver was a great tannedgiant, pongee colored from his hair to his puttees and boots. Fanny wasto learn, later, that in Estes Park the male tourist was likely tobe puny, pallid, and unattractive when compared to the tall, slim, straight, khaki-clad youth, browned by the sun, and the wind, and thedust, who drives his steamer up and down the perilous mountain roadswith more dexterity than the charioteering gods ever displayed onOlympus. 

Fanny got the seat beside this glorious person. The steamer was a hugevehicle, boasting five rows of seats, and looking very much like a smalledition of the sightseeing cars one finds in tourist-infested cities. 

"Heyl's place, " said Fanny. Suppose it failed to work!

Said the blond god, "Stopping at the Inn overnight, I s'pose. "

"Why--I don't know, " faltered Fanny. "Can't I go right on to--to--Heyl'splace?"

"Can. " Mountain steamer men are not loquacious. "Sure. Better not. Youwon't get to the Inn till dark. Better stay there over night, and go onup to Heyl's place in the morning. "

Then he leaned forward, clawed about expertly among what appeared toFanny's eyes to be a maze of handles, brakes, valves; and the great carglided smoothly off, without a bump, without a jar. Fanny took a longbreath. 

There is no describing a mountain. One uses words, and they are futile. And the Colorado Rockies, in October, when the aspens are turning! Well, aspens turn gold in October. People who have seen an aspen grove inOctober believe in fairies. And such people need no clumsy descriptivepassages to aid their fancies. You others who have not seen it?There shall be no poor weaving together of words. There shall be nodescription of orange and mauve and flame-colored sunsets, no jugglingwith mists and clouds, and sunrises and purple mountains. Mountaindwellers and mountain lovers are a laconic tribe. They know the futilityof words. 

But the effect of the mountains on Fanny Brandeis. That is within ourprovince. In the first place, they made her hungry. That was the crisp, heady air. The mountain road, to one who has never traveled it, is athing of delicious thrills and near-terror. A narrow, perilous ribbonof road, cut in the side of the rock itself; a road all horseshoe curvesand hairpin twists. Fanny found herself gasping. But that passed aftera time. Big Thompson canyon leaves no room for petty terror. And thepongee person was so competent, so quietly sure, so angularly gracefulamong his brakes and levers. Fanny stole a side glance at him now andthen. He looked straight ahead. When you drive a mountain steamer you dolook straight ahead. A glance to the right or left is so likely to meandeath, or at best a sousing in the Thompson that foams and rushes below. 

Fanny ventured a question. "Do you know Mr. Heyl?"

"Heyl? Took him down day before yesterday. "

"Down?"

"To the village. He's gone back east. "

Fanny was not quite sure whether the pang she felt was relief orconsternation. 

At Estes village the blond god handed her over to a twin charioteer whowould drive her up the mountain road to the Inn that nestled in a valleynine thousand feet up the mountain. It was a drive Fanny never forgot. Fenger, Ted, Haynes-Cooper, her work, her plans, her ambitions, seemedto dwindle to puny insignificance beside the vast grandeur that unfoldedbefore her at every fresh turn in the road. Up they went, and up, andup, and the air was cold, but without a sting in it. It was dark whenthe lights of the Inn twinkled out at them. The door was thrown openas they swung up the curve to the porch. A great log fire glowed in thefireplace. The dining room held only a dozen people, or thereabouts--adozen weary, healthy people, in corduroys and sweaters and boots, whosecleanly talk was all about climbing and fishing, and horseback rides andtrails. And it was fried chicken night at the Inn. Fanny thought she wastoo utterly tired to eat, until she began to eat, and then she thoughtshe was too hungry ever to stop. After dinner she sat, for a moment, before the log fire in the low-ceilinged room, with its log walls, itsrustic benches, and its soft-toned green and brown cushions. She forgotto be unhappy. She forgot to be anything but deliciously drowsy. And presently she climbed the winding stair whose newel post was afire-marked tree trunk, richly colored, and curiously twisted. And soto her lamp-lighted room, very small, very clean, very quiet. She openedher window and looked out at the towering mass that was Long's Peak, andat the stars, and she heard the busy little brook that scurries throughthe Inn yard on its way from the mountain to the valley. She undressedquickly, and crept into bed, meaning to be very, very miserable indeed. And the next thing she knew it was morning. A blue and gold Octobermorning. And the mountains!--but there is no describing a mountain. One uses words, and they are futile. Fanny viewed them again, from herwindow, between pauses in dressing. And she meant, privately, to bemiserable again. But she could only think, somehow, of bacon and eggs, and coffee, and muffins. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Heyl's place. Fanny stood before it, key in hand (she had found itin the mail box, tied to a string), and she had a curious and restfulfeeling, as if she had come home, after long wanderings. She smiled, whimsically, and repeated her lesson to herself:

"The fire's laid in the fireplace with fat pine knots that will blazeup at the touch of a match. My books are there, along the wall. Thebedding's in the cedar chest, and the lamps are filled. There's tinnedstuff in the pantry. And the mountains are there, girl, to make youclean and whole again. . . . "

She stepped up to the little log-pillared porch and turned the key inthe lock. She opened the door wide, and walked in. And then she shut hereyes for a moment. Because, if it shouldn't be true----

But there was a fire laid with fat pine knots. She walked straight overto it, and took her box of matches from her bag, struck one, and heldit to the wood. They blazed like a torch. Books! Along the four walls, books. Fat, comfortable, used-looking books. Hundreds of them. A lamp onthe table, and beside it a pipe, blackened from much use. Fanny pickedit up, smiling. She held it a moment in her hand, as though she expectedto find it still warm. 

"It's like one of the fairy tales, " she thought, "the kind that repeatsand repeats. The kind that says, `and she went into the next room, andit was as the good fairy had said. '"

There's tinned stuff in the pantry. She went into the tiny kitchen andopened the pantry door cautiously, being wary of mice. But it met hereye in spotless array. Orderly rows of tins. Orderly rows of bottles. Coffee. Condensed milk. Beans. Spaghetti. Flour. Peaches. Pears. 

Off the bedroom there was an absurdly adequate little bathroom, with azinc tub and an elaborate water-heating arrangement. 

Fanny threw back her head and laughed as she hadn't laughed in months. "Wild life in the Rockies, " she said aloud. She went back to thebook-lined living room. The fire was crackling gloriously. It was amany-windowed room, and each window framed an enchanting glimpse ofmountain, flaming with aspens up to timber-line, and snow-capped at thetop. Fanny decided to wait until the fire had died down to a coal-bed. Then she banked it carefully, put on a heavy sweater and a cap, and madefor the outdoors. She struck out briskly, tenderfoot that she was. Infive minutes she was panting. Her heart was hammering suffocatingly. Herlungs ached. She stopped, trembling. Then she remembered. The altitude, of course. Heyl had boasted that his cabin stood at an altitude of overnine thousand feet. Well, she would have to get used to it. But she wassoon striding forward as briskly as before. She was a natural mountaindweller. The air, the altitude, speeded up her heart, her lungs, sentthe blood dancing through her veins. Figuratively, she was on tip-toe. 

They had warned her, at the Inn, to take it slowly for the first fewdays. They had asked no questions. Fanny learned to heed their advice. She learned many more things in the next few days. She learned how toentice the chipmunks that crossed her path, streak o' sunshine, streako' shadow. She learned to broil bacon over a fire, with a forked stick. She learned to ride trail ponies, and to bask in a sun-warmed spot on awind-swept hill, and to tell time by the sun, and to give thanks for thebeauty of the world about her, and to leave the wild flowers unpicked, to put out her campfire with scrupulous care, and to destroy all rubbish(your true woodsman and mountaineer is as painstakingly neat as a Frenchhousewife). 

She was out of doors all day. At night she read for a while before thefire, but by nine her eyelids were heavy. She walked down to the Innsometimes, but not often. One memorable night she went, with half adozen others from the Inn, to the tiny one-room cabin of Oscar, thehandy man about the Inn, and there she listened to one of Oscar'sfar-famed phonograph concerts. Oscar's phonograph had cost twenty-fivedollars in Denver. It stood in one corner of his cabin, and its base wasa tree stump just five hundred years old, as you could tell for yourselfby counting its rings. His cabin walls were gorgeous with pictures ofMaxine Elliott in her palmy days, and blonde and sophisticated littlegirls on vinegar calendars, posing bare-legged and self-conscious inblue calico and sunbonnets. You sat in the warm yellow glow of Oscar'slamp and were regaled with everything from the Swedish NationalAnthem to Mischa Elman's tenderest crooning. And Oscar sat rapt, hisweather-beaten face a rich deep mahogany, his eyes bluer than any eyescould ever be except in contrast with that ruddy countenance, his teethso white that you found yourself watching for his smile that was sogently sweet and childlike. Oh, when Oscar put on his black pants andissued invitations for a musical evening one was sure to find his cabinpacked. Eight did it, with squeezing. 

This, then, was the atmosphere in which Fanny Brandeis found herself. As far from Haynes-Cooper as anything could be. At the end of the firstweek she found herself able to think clearly and unemotionally aboutTheodore, and about Fenger. She had even evolved a certain rather crudephilosophy out of the ruins that had tumbled about her ears. It wasso crude, so unformed in her mind that it can hardly be set down. Tojustify one's own existence. That was all that life held or meant. Butthat included all the lives that touched on yours. It had nothing todo with success, as she had counted success heretofore. It was service, really. It was living as--well, as Molly Brandeis had lived, helpfully, self-effacingly, magnificently. Fanny gave up trying to form the thingthat was growing in her mind. Perhaps, after all, it was too soon toexpect a complete understanding of that which had worked this change inher from that afternoon in Fenger's library. 

After the first few days she found less and less difficulty in climbing. Her astonished heart and lungs ceased to object so strenuously to theunaccustomed work. The Cabin Rock trail, for example, whose summit foundher panting and exhausted at first, now seemed a mere stroll. She grewmore daring and ambitious. One day she climbed the Long's Peak trail totimberline, and had tea at Timberline Cabin with Albert Edward Cobbins. Albert Edward Cobbins, Englishman, erstwhile sailor, adventurer andgentleman, was the keeper of Timberline Cabin, and the loneliest man inthe Rockies. It was his duty to house overnight climbers bound for thePeak, sunrise parties and sunset parties, all too few now in the chillOctober season-end. Fanny was his first visitor in three days. He waspathetically glad to see her. 

"I'll have tea for you, " he said, "in a jiffy. And I baked a pan ofFrench rolls ten minutes ago. I had a feeling. "

A magnificent specimen of a man, over six feet tall slim, broad-shouldered, long-headed, and scrubbed-looking as only anEnglishman can be, there was something almost pathetic in the sight ofhim bustling about the rickety little kitchen stove. 

"To-morrow, " said Fanny, over her tea, "I'm going to get an early start, reach here by noon, and go on to Boulder Field and maybe Keyhole. "

"Better not, Miss. Not in October, when there's likely to be a snowstormup there in a minute's notice. "

"You'd come and find me, wouldn't you? They always do, in the books. "

"Books are all very well, Miss. But I'm not a mountain man. The truthis I don't know my way fifty feet from this cabin. I got the job becauseI'm used to loneliness, and don't mind it, and because I can cook, d'yousee, having shipped as cook for years. But I'm a seafaring man, Miss. Iwouldn't advise it, Miss. Another cup of tea?"

But Long's Peak, king of the range, had fascinated her from the first. She knew that the climb to the summit would be impossible for her now, but she had an overwhelming desire to see the terrifying bulk of it froma point midway of the range. It beckoned her and intrigued her, as thedifficult always did. 

By noon of the following day she had left Albert Edward's cabin (hestood looking after her in the doorway until she disappeared around thebend) and was jauntily following the trail that led to Boulder Field, that sea of jagged rock a mile across. Soon she had left the tortured, wind-twisted timberline trees far behind. How pitiful Cabin Rock andTwin Sisters looked compared to this. She climbed easily and steadily, stopping for brief rests. Early in the week she had ridden down to thevillage, where she had bought climbing breeches and stout leggings. Shelaughed at Albert Edward and his fears. By one o'clock she had reachedBoulder Field. She found the rocks glazed with ice. Just over Keyhole, that freakish vent in a wall of rock, the blue of the sky had changedto the gray of snow-clouds. Tenderfoot though she was, she knew that theclimb over Boulder Field would be perilous, if not impossible. She wenton, from rock to rock, for half an hour, then decided to turn back. Aclap of thunder, that roared and crashed, and cracked up and down thecanyons and over the peaks, hastened her decision. She looked about her. Peak on peak. Purple and black and yellow masses, fantastic in theirhugeness. Chasms. Canyons. Pyramids and minarets. And so near. So grim. So ghastly desolate. And yet so threatening. And then Fanny Brandeis wasseized with mountain terror. It is a disease recognized by mountain meneverywhere, and it is panic, pure and simple. It is fear brought on bythe immensity and the silence of the mountains. A great horror of thevastness and ruggedness came upon her. It was colossal, it was crushing, it was nauseating. 

She began to run. A mistake, that, when one is following a mountaintrail, at best an elusive thing. In five minutes she had lost the trail. She stopped, and scolded herself sternly, and looked about her. She sawthe faint trail line again, or thought she saw it, and made toward it, and found it to be no trail at all. She knew that she must be not morethan an hour's walk from Timberline Cabin, and Albert Edward, andhis biscuits and tea. Why be frightened? It was absurd. But she wasfrightened, horribly, harrowingly. The great, grim rock masses seemedto be shaking with silent laughter. She began to run again. She was verycold, and a piercing wind had sprung up. She kept on walking, doggedly, reasoning with herself quite calmly, and proud of her calmness. Whichproves how terrified she really was. Then the snow came, not slowly, not gradually, but a blanket of it, as it does come in the mountains, shutting off everything. And suddenly Fanny's terror vanished. She feltquite free from weariness. She was alive and tingling to her fingertips. The psychology of fear is a fascinating thing. Fanny had reachedthe second stage. She was quite taken out of herself. She forgot herstone-bruised feet. She was no longer conscious of cold. She ran now, fleetly, lightly, the ground seeming to spur her on. She had given upthe trail completely now. She told herself that if she ran on, down, down, down, she must come to the valley sometime. Unless she was turnedabout, and headed in the direction of one of those hideous chasms. Shestopped a moment, peering through the snow curtain, but she could seenothing. She ran on lightly, laughing a little. Then her feet met aprojection, she stumbled, and fell flat over a slab of wood that juttedout of the ground. She lay there a moment, dazed. Then she sat up, andbent down to look at this thing that had tripped her. Probably a treetrunk. Then she must be near timberline. She bent closer. It was a roughwooden slab. Closer still. There were words carved on it. She lay flatand managed to make them out painfully. 

"Here lies Sarah Cannon. Lay to rest, and died alone, April 26, 1893. "

Fanny had heard the story of Sarah Cannon, a stern spinster who hadachieved the climb to the Peak, and who had met with mishap on the downtrail. Her guide had left her to go for help. When the relief partyreturned, hours later, they had found her dead. 

Fanny sprang up, filled with a furious energy. She felt strangely lightand clear-headed. She ran on, stopped, ran again. Now she wasmaking little short runs here and there. It was snowing furiously, vindictively. It seemed to her that she had been running for hours. Itprobably was minutes. Suddenly she sank down, got to her feet again, stumbled on perhaps a dozen paces, and sank down again. It was as thoughher knees had turned liquid. She lay there, with her eyes shut. 

"I'm just resting, " she told herself. "In a minute I'll go on. In aminute. After I've rested. "

"Hallo-o-o-o!" from somewhere on the other side of the snow blanket. "Hallo-o-o-o!" Fanny sat up, helloing shrilly, hysterically. She got toher feet, staggeringly. And Clarence Heyl walked toward her. 

"You ought to be spanked for this, " he said. 

Fanny began to cry weakly. She felt no curiosity as to his being there. She wasn't at all sure that he actually was there, for that matter. At that thought she dug a frantic hand into his arm. He seemed tounderstand, for he said, "It's all right. I'm real enough. Can youwalk?"

"Yes. " But she tried it and found she could not. She decided she was tootired to care. "I stumbled over a thing--a horrible thing--a gravestone. And I must have hurt my leg. I didn't know----"

She leaned against him, a dead weight. "Tell you what, " said Heyl, cheerfully. "You wait here. I'll go on down to Timberline Cabin forhelp, and come back. "

"You couldn't manage it--alone? If I tried? If I tried to walk?"

"Oh, impossible. " His tone was brisk. "Now you sit right down here. "She sank down obediently. She felt a little sorry for herself, and glad, too, and queer, and not at all cold. She looked up at him dumbly. He wassmiling. "All right?"

She nodded. He turned abruptly. The snow hid him from sight at once. 

"Here lies Sarah Cannon. Lay to rest and died alone, April 26, 1893. "

She sank down, and pillowed her head on her arms. She knew that this wasthe end. She was very drowsy, and not at all sad. Happy, if anything. 

"You didn't really think I'd leave you, did you, Fan?"

She opened her eyes. Heyl was there. He reached down, and lifted herlightly to her feet. "Timberline Cabin's not a hundred yards away. Ijust did it to try you. "

She had spirit enough left to say, "Beast. "

Then he swung her up, and carried her down the trail. He carried her, not in his arms, as they do it in books and in the movies. He could nothave gone a hundred feet that way. He carried her over his shoulder, like a sack of meal, by one arm and one leg, I regret to say. Any boyscout knows that trick, and will tell you what I mean. It is the mosteffectual carrying method known, though unromantic. 

And so they came to Timberline Cabin, and Albert Edward Cobbins was inthe doorway. Heyl put her down gently on the bench that ran alongsidethe table. The hospitable table that bore two smoking cups of tea. Fanny's lips were cracked, and the skin was peeled from her nose, andher hair was straggling and her eyes red-rimmed. She drank the tea ingreat gulps. And then she went into the tiny bunkroom, and tumbled intoone of the shelf-bunks, and slept. 

When she awoke she sat up in terror, and bumped her head against thebunk above, and called, "Clancy!"

"Yep!" from the next room. He came to the door. The acrid smell of theirpipes was incense in her nostrils. "Rested?"

"What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock. Dinner time. Ham and eggs. "

She got up stiffly, and bathed her roughened face, and produced a powderpad (they carry them in the face of danger, death, and dissolution) anddusted it over her scaly nose. She did her hair--her vigorous, abundanthair that shone in the lamplight, pulled down her blouse, surveyedher torn shoes ruefully, donned the khaki skirt that Albert Edward hadmagically produced from somewhere to take the place of her breeches. She dusted her shoes with a bit of rag, regarded herself steadily in thewavering mirror, and went in. 

The two men were talking quietly. Albert Edward was moving deftly fromstove to table. They both looked up as she came in, and she looked atHeyl. Their eyes held. 

Albert Edward was as sporting a gentleman as the late dear king whosename he bore. He went out to tend Heyl's horse, he said. It was littlehe knew of horses, and he rather feared them, as does a sailing man. Buthe went, nevertheless. 

Heyl still looked at Fanny, and Fanny at him. 

"It's absurd, " said Fanny. "It's the kind of thing that doesn't happen. "

"It's simple enough, really, " he answered. "I saw Ella Monahan inChicago, and she told me all she knew, and something of what she hadguessed. I waited a few days and came back. I had to. " He smiled. "Apretty job you've made of trying to be selfish. "

At that she smiled, too, pitifully enough, for her lower lip trembled. She caught it between her teeth in a last sharp effort at self-control. "Don't!" she quavered. And then, in a panic, her two hands came up in avain effort to hide the tears. She sank down on the rough bench by thetable, and the proud head came down on her arms so that there was alittle clatter and tinkle among the supper things spread on the table. Then quiet. 

Clarence Heyl stared. He stared, helplessly, as does a man who hasnever, in all his life, been called upon to comfort a woman in tears. Then instinct came to his rescue. He made her side of the table in twostrides (your favorite film star couldn't have done it better), put histwo hands on her shoulders and neatly shifted the bowed head from thecold, hard surface of the table top to the warm, rough, tobacco-scentedcomfort of his coat. It rested there quite naturally. Just as naturallyFanny's arm crept up, and about his neck. So they remained for a moment, until he bent so that his lips touched her hair. Her head came up atthat, sharply, so that it bumped his chin. They both laughed, lookinginto each other's eyes, but at what they saw there they stopped laughingand were serious. 

"Dear, " said Heyl. "Dearest. " The lids drooped over Fanny's eyes. "Lookat me, " said Heyl. So she tried to lift them again, bravely, and couldnot. At that he bent his head and kissed Fanny Brandeis in the way awoman wants to be kissed for the first time by the man she loves. Ithurt her lips, that kiss, and her teeth, and the back of her neck, andit left her breathless, and set things whirling. When she opened hereyes (they shut them at such times) he kissed her again, very tenderly, this time, and lightly, and reassuringly. She returned that kiss, and, strangely enough, it was the one that stayed in her memory long, longafter the other had faded. 

"Oh, Clancy, I've made such a mess of it all. Such a miserable mess. The little girl in the red tam was worth ten of me. I don't see how youcan--care for me. "

"You're the most wonderful woman in the world, " said Heyl, "and the mostbeautiful and splendid. "

He must have meant it, for he was looking down at her as he said it, andwe know that the skin had been peeled off her nose by the mountain windsand sun, that her lips were cracked and her cheeks rough, and that shewas red-eyed and worn-looking. And she must have believed him, for shebrought his cheek down to hers with such a sigh of content, though shesaid, "But are we at all suited to each other?"

"Probably not, " Heyl answered, briskly. "That's why we're going to beso terrifically happy. Some day I'll be passing the Singer building, andI'll glance up at it and think how pitiful it would look next to Long'sPeak. And then I'll be off, probably, to these mountains. "

"Or some day, " Fanny returned, "we'll be up here, and I'll remember, suddenly, how Fifth Avenue looks on a bright afternoon between four andfive. And I'll be off, probably, to the Grand Central station. "

And then began one of those beautiful and foolish conversations whichall lovers have whose love has been a sure and steady growth. Thus:"When did you first begin to care, " etc. And, "That day we spent at thedunes, and you said so and so, did you mean this and that?"

Albert Edward Cobbins announced his approach by terrific stampings andscufflings, ostensibly for the purpose of ridding his boots of snow. Heentered looking casual, and very nipped. 

"You're here for the night, " he said. "A regular blizzard. The greatestpiece of luck I've had in a month. " He busied himself with the ham andeggs and the teapot. "Hungry?"

"Not a bit, " said Fanny and Heyl, together. 

"H'm, " said Albert Edward, and broke six eggs into the frying pan justthe same. 

After supper they aided Albert Edward in the process of washing up. Wheneverything was tidy he lighted his most malignant pipe and told themseafaring yarns not necessarily true. Then he knocked the ashes outof his pipe and fell asleep there by the fire, effacing himself aseffectually as one of three people can in a single room. They talked;low-toned murmurings that they seemed to find exquisitely meaningfulor witty, by turn. Fanny, rubbing a forefinger (his) along herweather-roughened nose, would say, "At least you've seen me at myworst. "

Or he, mock serious: "I think I ought to tell you that I'm the kind ofman who throws wet towels into the laundry hamper. "

But there was no mirth in Fanny's voice when she said, "Dear, do youthink Lasker will give me that job? You know he said, `When you want ajob, come back. ' Do you think he meant it?"

"Lasker always means it. "

"But, " fearfully, and shyly, too, "you don't think I may have lost mydrawing hand and my seeing eye, do you? As punishment?"

"I do not. I think you've just found them, for keeps. There wasn't awoman cartoonist in the country--or man, either, for that matter--couldtouch you two years ago. In two more I'll be just Fanny Brandeis'husband, that's all. "

They laughed together at that, so that Albert Edward Cobbins awoke witha start and tried to look as if he had not been asleep, and failing, smiled benignly and drowsily upon them.