Emma McChesney's keen mental eye saw something decent and clean and
beautiful. And something pitiable, and something tragic.

"I guess you'd better come in and get some sleep," said Emma
McChesney; and somehow found her hand resting on the woman's shoulder.
So they stood, on the swaying, jolting platform. Blanche LeHaye, of
the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles, looked down, askance, at the hand on
her shoulder, as at some strange and interesting object.

"Ten years ago," she said, "that would have started me telling the
story of my life, with all the tremolo stops on, and the orchestra in
tears. Now it only makes me mad."

Emma McChesney's hand seemed to snatch itself away from the woman's
shoulder.

"You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in."

"Wait a minute. Don't go away sore, kid. On the square, I guess I
liked the feel of your hand on my arm, like that. Say, I've done the
same thing myself to a strange dog that looked up at me, pitiful. You
know, the way you reach down, and pat 'm on the head, and say, 'Nice
doggie, nice doggie, old fellow,' even if it is a street cur, with a
chawed ear, and no tail. They growl and show their teeth, but they
like it. A woman--Lordy! there comes the brakeman. Let's beat it.
Ain't we the nervy old hens!"

The female of the species as she is found in sleeping-car dressing-
rooms had taught Emma McChesney to rise betimes that she might avoid
contact with certain frowsy, shapeless beings armed with bottles of