She rose to go, and in so doing her eyes fell upon the queer little
woman to whom she had yielded her place before the Denver paper.
Submerged as she had been in her own desolation she had given no
heed to the small figure which came slipping along beside her beyond
the bare thought that she was queer-looking. But as her eyes rested
upon her now there was something about the woman which held her.

She was a strange little figure. An old-fashioned shawl was pinned
tightly about her shoulders, and she was wearing a queer, rusty
little bonnet. Her hair was rolled up in a small knot at the back of
her head. She did not look as though she belonged in Chicago. And
then, as the girl stood there looking at her, she saw the thin
shoulders quiver, and after a minute the head that was wearing the
rusty bonnet went down into the folds of the Denver paper.

The girl's own eyes filled, and she turned to go. It seemed she
could scarcely bear her own unhappiness that day, without coming
close to the heartache of another. But when she reached the end of
the alcove she glanced back, and the sight of that shabby, bent
figure, all alone before the Denver paper, was not to be withstood.

"I am from Colorado, too," she said softly, laying a hand upon the
bent shoulders.

The woman looked up at that and took the girl's hand in both of her
thin, trembling ones. It was a wan and a troubled face she lifted,
and there was something about the eyes which would not seem to have
been left there by tears alone.

"And do you have a pining for the mountains?" she whispered, with a