He began his watch that night at half-past five. After fifteen
minutes the thought came to him that she might be so disheartened
she would go home by another street. He became so gloomily certain
she would do this that he was jubilant when he finally saw her
coming along on the other side--coming purposelessly, shorn of that
eagerness which had always been able, for the moment, to vanquish
the tiredness. But when she came to the place where she always
crossed the street she only stood there an instant and then, a
little more slowly, a little more droopingly, walked on. She had
given up! She was not coming over!

But she did come. After she had gone a few steps she hesitated again
and this time started across the street. "That's right," approved
the old man, "never give up the ship!"

She passed the store as if she were not going to look in; she seemed
trying not to look, but her head turned--and she saw the picture.
First her body seemed to stiffen, and then something--he couldn't
make out whether or not it was a sob--shook her, and as she came
toward the picture on her white, tired face were the tears.

"Don't you worry," he murmured affectionately to her retreating
form, "it won't never be gone again."

The very next week he was put to the test. The kind of lady who did
not often pass along that street entered the shop and asked to see
the picture in the window. He looked at her suspiciously. Then he
frowned at her, as he stood there, fumbling. _Her_ picture!
What would she think? What would she do? Then a crafty smile stole
over his face and he walked to the window and got the picture. "The