it pass. "As if any of _them_ could buy it," he pronounced
severely, adding, contemptuously, "or wanted to."

The girl was coming along by herself. He watched her as she crossed
to his side of the street, thinking it was too bad for a poor girl
to be as tired as that. She was dressed like many of the rest of
them, and yet she looked different--like the picture and the chromo.
She turned an indifferent glance toward the window, and then
suddenly she stood there very still, and everything about her seemed
to change. "For all the world," he told himself afterward, "as if
she'd found a long-lost friend, and was 'fraid to speak for fear it
was too good to be true."

She did seem afraid to speak--afraid to believe. For a minute she
stood there right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the
picture. And when she came toward the window it was less as if
coming than as if drawn. What she really seemed to want to do was to
edge away; yet she came closer, as close as she could, her eyes
never leaving the picture, and then fear, or awe, or whatever it was
made her look so queer gave way to wonder--that wondering which is
ready to open the door to delight. She looked up and down the street
as one rubbing one's eyes to make sure of a thing, and then it all
gave way to a joy which lighted her pale little face like--"Well,
like nothing I ever saw before," was all the old man could say of
it. "Why, she'd never know if the whole fire department was to run
right up here on the sidewalk," he gloated. Just then she drew
herself up for a long breath. "See?" he chuckled, delightedly. "She
knows it has a smell!" She looked toward the door, but shook her
head. "Knows she can't pay the price," he interpreted her. Then, she
stepped back and looked at the number above the door. "Coming