she pulled down her shirtwaist all around and went down to supper.

The dining-room was very warm, and there came a smell of lardy things
from the kitchen. Those supping were doing so languidly.

"I'm dying for something cool, and green, and fresh," remarked Emma to
the girl who filled her glass with iced water; "something springish
and tempting."

"Well," sing-songed she of the ruffled, starched skirt, "we have
ham'n-aigs, mutton chops, cold veal, cold roast--"

"Two, fried," interrupted Emma hopelessly, "and a pot of tea--black."

Supper over she passed through the lobby on her way upstairs. The
place was filled with men. They were lolling in the big leather chairs
at the window, or standing about, smoking and talking. There was a
rattle of dice from the cigar counter, and a burst of laughter from
the men gathered about it. It all looked very bright, and cheery, and
sociable. Emma McChesney, turning to ascend the stairs to her room,
felt that she, too, would like to sit in one of the big leather chairs
in the window and talk to some one.

Some one was playing the piano in the parlor. The doors were open.
Emma McChesney glanced in. Then she stopped. It was not the appearance
of the room that held her. You may have heard of the wilds of an
African jungle--the trackless wastes of the desert--the solitude of
the forest--the limitless stretch of the storm-tossed ocean; they are
cozy and snug when compared to the utter and soul-searing dreariness
of a small town hotel parlor. You know what it is--red carpet, red