Mr. Schriven fell into a foxy fit of musing, and there rose before
his mind the pale face and dragged, weary, listless look of a girl
now standing at the ribbon counter. "She'll break down when hard
work begins again," he thought; "she's giving way now with nothing
much to do. To be sure she has been here a long time, and has done
her best and all that, but her day is past, and here's plenty of
young flesh and blood to fill her place. This one is rather young,
but she's smart as a whip--she's full of mettle and is fresh and
healthy-looking. It won't do to have pale girls around, for it
gives cursed busybodies a chance to rant about women standing all
day. (Out of the corner of his eye he measured Belle from head to
foot.) She can stand, and stand it, too, for a long while. She's
compact and stout. She's built right for the business." At last he
said, aloud, "In case I should so far depart from my usual custom
and make a place for you, as you suggest, what do you propose to
charge for the services you rate so highly?"

"What you choose to give."

"Well," was the laughing answer, "there's method in your madness.
Take that pen and write what I dictate."

Belle wrote a few sentences in a dashing, but sufficiently legible
hand.

"You will have to practice a little, and aim at distinctness
and clearness. That's more than style in business," Mr. Schriven
continued deliberately, for the young creature was so delightfully
fresh and original that he began to regard her as an agreeable
episode in the dull August day. "I'll make a place for you, as you