"I was going to, so I locked the door," replied the girl Dagmar.
"But I, too, was tired."

"Yes, it is so. Well, the mill is not so bad. It has a new window
near my bench, and I breathe better. But, daughter, we must go
down. Keep the door locked as you dress. Those new peoples may not
tell which is the right room." With a glance at the fair daughter,
so unlike herself in coloring, the working mother dragged herself
out again, and soon could be heard cliptrapping down the dark
stairs that led to the kitchens on the first floor of the mill
workers, community lodgings.

Dagmar breathed deeply and clasped her hands tightly as her
mother's tired foottread fell to an echo. Love filled the blue
eyes and an affectionate smile wreathed the red lips.

"Poor mother!" she sighed aloud. "I hate to--"

Then again came that look of determination, and when Dagmar
slipped down the stairs she carried the telescope and her
crochetted hand bag. Her velvet tarn sat jauntily on those
wonderful yellow curls, and her modern cape flew gracefully out,
just showing the least fold of her best chiffon blouse. Dagmar
wore strickly American clothes, selected in rather good taste, and
they attracted much attention in the streets of Flosston.

Once clear of the long brown building, through which spots of
light now struck the night, out of those desperate rows and rows
of machine-made windows, Dagmar made her way straight to the
corner, then turned straight again to another long narrow street,