editorial room were two tables--kitchen tables, littered with
papers and journals, as was the floor, also. At the table
directly opposite the door no one was sitting-- ``Victor Dorn's
desk,'' Jane decided. At the table by the open window sat a
girl, bent over her writing. Jane saw that the figure was below,
probably much below, the medium height for woman, that it was
slight and strong, that it was clad in a simple, clean gray linen
dress. The girl's black hair, drawn into a plain but distinctly
graceful knot, was of that dense and wavy thickness which is a
characteristic and a beauty of the Hebrew race. The skin at the
nape of her neck, on her hands, on her arms bare to the elbows
was of a beautiful dead-white--the skin that so admirably
compliments dead-black hair.

Before disturbing this busy writer Jane glanced round. There was
nothing to detain her in the view of the busy printing plant in
the room beyond. But on the walls of the room before her were
four pictures --lithographs, cheap, not framed, held in place by
a tack at each corner. There was Washington--then Lincoln--then
a copy of Leonardo's Jesus in the Last Supper fresco--and a
fourth face, bearded, powerful, imperious, yet wonderfully kind
and good humored-- a face she did not know. Pointing her riding
stick at it she said:

``And who is that?''

With a quick but not in the least a startled movement the girl at
the table straightened her form, turned in her chair, saying, as
she did so, without having seen the pointing stick: