Emma McChesney picked her way over a little heap of dust-cloths and a
ladder or so.

"House-cleaning," she repeated dreamily; "spring house-cleaning." And
there came a troubled, yearning light into her eyes. It lingered there
after the boy had unlocked and thrown open the door of sixty-five,
pocketed his dime, and departed.

Sixty-five was--well, you know what sixty-five generally is in a small
Middle-Western town. Iron bed--tan wall-paper--pine table--pine
dresser--pine chair--red carpet--stuffy smell--fly buzzing at window--
sun beating in from the west. Emma McChesney saw it all in one
accustomed glance.

"Lordy, I hate to think what nineteen must be," she told herself, and
unclasped her bag. Out came the first aid to the travel-stained--a jar
of cold cream. It was followed by powder, chamois, brush, comb, tooth-
brush. Emma McChesney dug four fingers into the cold cream jar,
slapped the stuff on her face, rubbed it in a bit, wiped it off with a
dry towel, straightened her hat, dusted the chamois over her face,
glanced at her watch and hurriedly whisked downstairs.

"After all," she mused, "that thin guy might not be out for a music
house. Maybe his line is skirts, too. You never can tell. Anyway, I'll
beat him to it."

Saturday afternoon and spring-time in a small town! Do you know it?
Main Street--on the right side--all a-bustle; farmers' wagons drawn up
at the curbing; farmers' wives in the inevitable rusty black with
dowdy hats furbished up with a red muslin rose in honor of spring;