comedian's hat off with my toe."

"But there must have been a time--" insinuated Emma McChesney, gently.

Blanche LeHaye grinned broadly at the two women who were watching her
so intently.

"I think I ought to tell you," she began, "that I never was a
minister's daughter, and I don't remember ever havin' been deserted by
my sweetheart when I was young and trusting. If I was to draw a
picture of my life it would look like one of those charts that the
weather bureau gets out--one of those high and low barometer things,
all uphill and downhill like a chain of mountains in a kid's
geography."

She shut her eyes and lay back in the depths of the leather-cushioned
chair. The three sat in silence for a moment.

"Look here," said Emma McChesney, suddenly, rising and coming over to
the woman in the big chair, "that's not the life for a woman like you.
I can get you a place in our office--not much, perhaps, but something
decent--something to start with. If you--"

"For that matter," put in Ethel Morrissey, quickly, "I could get you
something right here in our store. I've been there long enough to have
some say-so, and if I recommend you they'd start you in the basement
at first, and then, if you made good, they advance you right along."

Blanche LeHaye stood up and, twisting her arm around at the back,
began to unbutton her gingham apron.