price of this picture, madame," he said, haughtily, "is forty
dollars,"--adding to himself, "That'll fix her."

But the lady made no comment, and stood there holding the picture up
before her. "I will take it," she said, quietly.

He stared at her stupidly. Forty dollars! Then it must be that the
picture was better than the young man had known. "Will you wrap it,
please?" she asked. "I will take it with me."

He turned to the back of the store. Forty dollars!--he kept
repeating it in dazed fashion. And they had raised the rent on him,
and the papers said coal would be high that winter--those facts
seemed to have something to do with forty dollars. _Forty
dollars!_--it was hammering at him, overwhelmed him, too big a
sum to contend with. With long, grim stroke he tore off the wrapping
paper; stoically he began folding it. But something was the matter.
The paper would not go on right. Three times he took it off, and
each time he could not help looking down at the picture of the
pines. And each time the forest seemed to open a little farther;
each time it seemed bigger--bigger even than forty dollars; it
seemed as if it _knew things_--things more important than even
coal and rent. And then the strangest thing of all happened: the
forest faded away into its own shadowy distances, and in its place
was a noisy, crowded, sun-baked street, and across the street was
eagerly hurrying an anxious little girl, a frail little wisp of a
girl who probably should not be crossing hot, noisy streets at
all--then a light in tired eyes, a smile upon a worn face, relief as
from a cooling breeze--and _anyway_, suddenly furious at the
lady, furious at himself--"he'd be gol-_darned_ if it wasn't