Finally she dried her eyes, opened her purse, and counted her money.
It seemed that out of her great desire, out of her great new need,
there must be more than she had thought. But there was not, and she
folded her hands upon the two five-dollar bills and the one silver
dollar and looked hopelessly about the big room.

She had forgotten her own disappointments, her own loneliness. She
was oblivious to everything in the world now save what seemed the
absolute necessity of getting the woman back to the mountains while
she had eyes to see them.

But what could she do? Again she counted the money. She could make
herself, some way or other, get along without one of the five-dollar
bills, but five dollars would not take one very close to the
mountains. It was at that moment that she saw a man standing before
the Denver paper, and noticed that another man was waiting to take
his place. The one who was reading had a dinner pail in his hand.
The clothes of the other told that he, too, was of the world's
workers. It was clear to the girl that the man at the file was
reading the paper from home; and the man who was ready to take his
place looked as if waiting for something less impersonal than the
news of the day.

The idea came upon her with such suddenness, so full born, that it
made her gasp. They--the people who came to read the Denver paper,
the people who loved the mountains and were far from them, the
people who were themselves homesick and full of longing--were the
people to understand.

It took her but a minute to act. She put the silver dollar and one