led in a chair in her bedroom, looked up into the plump, kindly face of the woman who was bending

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 crowded sitting-room as she passed through to t

aking him look more than ever like a leading man. He had been of those who had sat in what he called Mrs. Brandeis's confessional, there in the quiet little store. The two had talked of things theological and things earthy. His wit, quick though it was, was no match for hers, but they both had a humor sense and a drama sense, and one day they discovered, queerly enough, tha

mple Emanu-el Ladies' Aid Society sat in a row. They had never honored Molly Brandeis with office in the society-she who could have managed its business, politics and social activities with one hand tied behind her, and both her bright eyes shut. In the kitchen and on the porch and in the hallway stood certain obscure people-women whose finger tips stuck out of their cotton gloves, and whose skirts dipped ludicrously in the back. Only Molly Brandeis could have identified them for you. Mrs. Brosch, the butter and egg woman, hov

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 allowed Sadie, or Pearl, or Fanny or Aloysius to wait on her. She had attended to her herself. And one day, for some reason, Blanche D

er mother refused to eat the Christmas dinner? Blind and selfish, she told herself; blind and selfish. Her face was swollen and distorted now, and she was thankful for the black veil that shielded her. Winnebago was scandalized to see that she wore no other black. Mrs. Brandeis had never wanted Fanny to wear it; she hadn't enough color, she said. So now she was dressed in her winter suit of blue, and her hat with the pert blue quill. And the

virgin there, except for that one spot where the sexton and his men had been at work. Then back at a smart jog trot through the early dusk of the winter aftern

she'll say, `Well Fanchen! Hungry? Oh, but my little girl's hands are cold! Come

shoved it back against the wall where it belonged. She straightened a rug, carried the waste basket from the desk to the spot near the living-room table where it had always served to hide the shabby, worn place in the rug. Fanny went up-stairs, pas

too; kindly, awkward men, who patted her shoulder, and who spoke of Molly Brandeis with that sincerity of admiration such as men usually give only to men. People were constantly popping in at the

eye-a speculative eye. The Christmas season was over. January was the time for inventory and for replenishment. Mrs. Brandeis had always gone to Chicago the second week in January for the spring stock. But somethi

ople had asked her, curious and in

r to the first. And, "No. Wh

d be of such

a curious smile that had in it more of bitterness

ter," the six-thousand-dollar insurance, the stock, good-will and fixtures of Brandeis' Bazaar, the house furnishings, the few pieces of jewelry in t

terrible in the way she went about this self-analysis. She walked a great deal that winter, often out through the drifts to the little cemetery. As she walked her mind was working, working. She held long mental conversation

t, Fanny. You're n

! Watch me!

would have done under the same con

ing to do. I'm through being sentimental and

ition, and resentment. She made up 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, she could never accomplish more than to make her business a more than ordinarily successful small-town store. And she would be-nobody. No, she had had enough of that. She would crush and destroy the little girl who had fasted

he shortest distance

this Fanny Brandeis whose eyes filled with tears at sight of a parade-just the sheer drama of it-were the marchers G. A. R. veterans, school children in white, soldiers, Foresters, political marching clubs; and

ound delight in wandering about the city's foreign quarters. When other small-town women buyers snatched occasional moments of leisure for the theater or personal shopping, these two had spent hours in the ghetto around Jefferson and Taylor, and Fourteenth Streets. Something in the sight of these people-alien, hopeful, emotional, often grotesque-thrilled and interested both the women. And at sight of

r. In March she sold outright the stock, good-will, and fixtures of Brandeis' Bazaar. The purchaser was a thrifty, farsighted traveling man who had wearied of the road and wanted to settle down. She sold the household goods too-those intimate, personal pieces of wood and cloth that had become, somehow, part of her life. She had grown up with them.

racter of its occupant; to her protest against things as she found them, and her determination to make them over to suit her. She had spent innumerable Sunday mornings wielding

women don when they perform some very special household ritual-baking, preserving, house cleaning. It crossed over the shoulders with straps, and its generous fullness ran all the way around the waist. It was discolored in many places with the brown and reddish stains of fruit juices. It had been Molly Brandeis' can

g dishpan, in which the jelly glasses and fruit 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 a priestess, stirring, stirring, slowly, rhythmically. H

I didn't think I'd get more than ten. And nine of the quince preserve. That

ver eat i

y April my preserve cupboard lo

mann, and a dozen others could testify. After the strain and flurry of a busy day at the store there was s

scorched place where she had burned a hole when trying unwisely to lift a steaming kettle from the stove with the apron's corner, spoke to her with eloquent lips. That apron had become a vice with Fanny. She brooded over it as a moth

me sprites dancing over it. Fanny stared at it a moment, fascinated. Her face was set, her eyes brilliant. Suddenly she flung the tightly-rolled apron 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

ng-cloth, or something," cal

n that was cluttering

lesson in the cruel and rigid course of men

buggy for a go-cart. The youngest Hupp boy-Sammy-who was graduated from High School in June, is driving A. J. Dawes's automobile now. My goodness, how time flies! Doeppler's grocery has put in plate-glass windows, and they're getting out-of-season vegetables every day now from Milwaukee. As you pass you get the coral glow of tomatoes, and the tender green of lettuces. And that vivid green? Fresh young peas! And in February. Well!

er reason for leaving Winnebago. They were like detaining f

ate Street) did not tempt her. She knew her value. She could afford to wait. There was money enough on which to live comfortably until the right chance presented itself. She knew every item of her equipment, and she conned them to herself greedily: Definite charm of manner; the thing that is called magnetism; brai

for years. He dropped both sample cases and shook hands with Fanny, eying her expertly and approvingly, and yet without insolence. He was a wise, road-weary, skillful member of h

've sol

er a mon

e. Your ma built it up herself. There was a woman!

ete characterization of my mother. Her life was a series of p

I met you." He picked up his sam

es

girl. And your mother's daughter. I guess you'll

e right chance. It's all in start

timer. They want these high-power, eight-cylinder kids on the road these days, and it's all we can do to keep up. But I've got something they haven't g

ely, and took a little step forward

head of the class. I've made 'em all. Now get this. You start out and specialize. Specialize

is one to

that's what they call having imagination. I never had any. That's why I'm still selling goods on the road. To look at you I'd say you had too much. Maybe I'm wrong.

cial

tes the mail-order houses. But I hear they've got an infants' wear department that's just going to grass for lack of a proper head. You're only a kid. And they have done you

ing about the vastness of the thing that appealed to Fanny. Here was an organization whose great arms embraced the wo

n," Molly Brandeis used to say. "The Bible's in the parlor,

dering their stove, or dinner set, or plow, or kitchen goods from the fascinating catalogue. "I honestly think it's just the craving for excitement that makes them do it," she often said. "They want

office, dispose of his load of apples, or butter, or cheese, or vegetables, and drive cheerfully back again, his empty wagon bump

ered, and there was something tentative about the whole agreement. Haynes-Cooper proffered little and demanded much, as is the way of the rich and mighty. But Fanny rememb

h recording. One was with Father Fitzpatrick of St. Ignatius Catho

g of boxes, strapping of trunks. When things began to come too thick and fast for her she put on her hat and went for a walk at the close of the May day. May

iers. She leaned over the iron railing and looked down. Where grass, and brook, and wild flower had been there now oozed great eruptions of ash heaps, tin cans, broken bottles, mounds of dirt. Winnebago's growing pains had begun. Fanny turned away with a little sick feeling. She went

ft Winnebago. A picture came to her mind of his handsome, ruddy face, twinkling with humor as she had last seen it when he had dropped in at Brandeis' Bazaar f

t with a pail of paint and does 'em every morning befor

wered by Father Casey, parish assistant. A sour-faced and suspicious young man, Father Casey, thick-spectacled, and pointe

trick in? I'm

is busy," and the gla

ice from within. "Who're

ishioner." The door

y assistant, dwarfing him. He looked sharply at the figure on the porch. "For the love of-! Casey, you're a fool! How you eve

at defied the housekeeper's weapons of broom and duster. A comfortable and disreputable room, full of books, and fishing tackle, and chairs with sagging springs, and a so

nt was justified, really, in closing the door on me. But I'm glad you rescued me." She came over to him and stood looking up at him. He seemed

ou had left without seeing me I'd have excommunicated Casey. Between you and me the man's mad. His jo

tention to its bouquet. A subtle, teasing, elusive something that just tickles the senses instead of punching them in the ribs. So his speech was permeated with a will

ng away. I'd h

usiness staff-I mean working actually in an executive way in the buying and selling end of the business. Of course ther

gers on the arm of his chair, and looke

seriously of this little trick of drawing, or cartooning, or whatever it is you have. She used to think about it. She said once to me, that it looked to her m

hat! I just amus

re's all too few amusing things in the world. Your moth

t? Who ever heard of a woman cartoonist! And I couldn't illustrate. Those pink ch

ooking down the steep green slope of the ravin

irl who'd get it, once you started out for it. I've never had much myself. They say it has a way of turning

new taste to me." She whirled around suddenly. "And speaking of dust and ashes, isn't this a shame? A crime? Why doesn't some

He cleared his throat. "It's a perfectly natural state of affairs," he said smoothly. "Winnebago's growing. Especially over there on the

s are the most beautiful natural spots in Wisconsi

he way you f

you? Can't you s

r fool of a priest, and sentimental, with no head for

u're j

ging up, and squeedging up, and trying to grab the ravines and spoil 'em, when nobody's looking. You've made your cho

every one has

g your ravines choked up at Haynes-Cooper th

ere, and grub away, and become a crabbed old maid like Irma Klein, thankful to be taken around by the married crowd, joining the Aid Society and going to the

different. And I'll tel

got that

any other girl of your age. Inwardly you've been molded by occupat

here is no such thing as a Jewis

t of brand on them-a mark that differentiates. Sometimes it doesn't show outwardly. But it's there, inside. You know, Fanny, how it's always been said that no artist can became a genius until he has suffered. You've suf

did a caricature of me in the pulpit. You showed up something that I've been trying to hide for twenty years, till I'd fooled everybody, including myself. My church is a

r at that, and the t

ed his great arm, "I'd rather talk t

ble to say that a year

the ravine bridge, and thought she walked very much like her mother, shoulders squared, chin high, hips firm

sermon now, si

would supply that brogue, because it was such a deliciously soft and racy t

ed-and sad. That, she told herself, was only natural. Leaving things to which one is accustomed is always hard. Queerly enough, it was her good-by to Aloysius that most unnerv

ar coats. "And when you come back to Winnebago, Miss Fanny,-and the saints send it be soon-I'll bet ye'll see me on th' fi

l serve you he

a Yiddish business education into an Irish head, and there's no limit to the length ye can

ss of the bright-eyed woman he had admiringly called his boss, that Fanny found her self-control slipping. She put out her hand rather blindly to meet his great r

e began at seven. At half past six Fanny had finished her early supper. She would drop

lmann's had a German maid-one Minna-who bullied the invalid Mrs. Thalmann, was famous for her c

in his study. Fanny ra

Minna! Next Monday he

Thalmann. Fa

Now what d

t a comfortable old romeo, on the other a street shoe. He held out both hands. "Only at

ught we might walk to temple toge

d. But that was for Fanny alone. What he said was: "She's real

y that? But how! What I have suffered to-day, only

said Rabb

its red plush mantel drape. Mrs. Thalmann held out a hand. Fanny took it in hers, and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Sh

she have her w

te a

, the

gure that had opened the door for her. "Yes," she lied,

sfied sigh. "A wonder." She shook her head. "What

neatly, toes out, under the bed. "Ach, Harriet, the girl is all right. You imagin

and on Fanny's arm. "You will co

ce a year, perhaps,

her, Fanny, we didn't understand her so well, here in

d. She stood up. "Ye

the four walls. We were aber dumm, we women-but how dumm! She was t

und herself with her glowing cheek pressed against the withered one, and it was the weak old hand t

said in her best German

wife shook her

Come, child, come!" Then, "Ach, the light in my stud

ere photographs of Rabbi Thalmann's confirmation classes. Spindling-legged little boys in the splendor of patent-leather buttoned shoes, stiff white shirts, black broadcloth suits with satin lapels; self-conscious and awkward little girls-these in the minority-in white dresses and sti

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 hi

feeble, the ol

all I can do to keep up wit

ring about the prophets. Texts from the Bible have gone out of fashion. You think I do not see them giggling, h'm? The young people. And the whispering in the choir loft. And the buzz when I get up from my chair after the second hymn. `Is he g

s. "My dear!" she said. "My dear!" A

ay evening service, these placid, prosperous people, n

fter to-morrow, would no longer be hers. "The dear old thing. `Sex sermons.' And the rac

father or mother. Then she changed her mind. Her quick eye noted his walk; a peculiar walk, with a spring in it. Only one unfamiliar with cement pavements could walk like that. The Indians must have had that same light, muscular step. He chose an empty pew halfway down the aisle and stumbled into it rather awkwardly. Fanny thought he was unneces

manence that was ludicrous. It had been years since he had left Winnebago. At the time of his mother's death they had tried to reach him, and had been unable to get in touch with him for weeks. He had been off on some mountain expedition, hundreds of miles from railroad or telegraph. Fanny remembered having read about him in the Winnebago Courier. He seemed to be climbing mountains a great deal-

gone on an expedition with Roosevelt. A sprained ankle, or some such thing, had prevented. Fanny smiled again, to herself. His mother, the fussy per

nd palpably bored. As always with her, the thing stamped itself on her mind as a picture. She was forever seeing a situation in terms of its human value. How small he looked, how frail, against th

dry, and then cast you aside in your old age, a pulp, a

ettled about her mouth a certain grim line that sat strangely on so young a face. The service marched on. There came the organ prelude that announced the mourners' prayer. Then Rabbi Thalmann began to intone the Kaddish. Fanny rose, prayer book in hand. At that Clarence Heyl rose too, hurriedly, as one unaccustomed to the service, and stood with unbow

know that, and feel it. It is like the first movement in one of the concertos Theodore was

things rare, and drink of things costly, but the sturdy, stocky little girl in the made-over silk dress, who had resisted the Devil in Weinberg's pantry on that long-ago Day of Atonement, would always be there at the feast. Myself, I confess I am tired of these stories of young women who go to the big city, there to do battle with failure, to grapple with temptation, sin and discouragement. So it may as well be admitted th

ough stamping a picture on her mind. His eyes were resting gently on her-or perhaps she j

and keep thee. May He cause His countenance to shine upon thee and

o it was she altogether failed to see the dark young man who hurried after her eagerly, and who was stopped by a dozen welcoming hands there in the temple vestibule. He swore a deep inward "Damn!" as he saw her straig

nebago at eigh