revealed pain of years. Just then he began to cough, and it seemed
the cough, too, was more than of the moment. And then he turned and
saw her, and smiled, and the smile changed all.

As the afternoon wore on the man stopped working and turning a
little in his chair sat there covertly watching the girl. She was
just typically girl. It was written that she had spent her days in
the happy ways of healthful girlhood. He supposed that a great many
young fellows had fallen in love with her--nice, clean young
fellows, the kind she would naturally meet. And then his eyes closed
for a minute and he put up his hand and brushed back his hair; there
was weariness, weariness weary of itself, in the gesture. He looked
about the room and scanned the faces of the men, most of them older
than he, many of them men whose histories were well known to him.
They were the usual hangers on about newspaper offices; men who, for
one reason or other--age, dissipation, antiquated methods--had been
pitched over, men for whom such work as this came as a godsend. They
were the men of yesterday--men whom the world had rushed past. She
was the only one there, this girl who would probably sit here beside
him for many months, with whom the future had anything to do.
Youth!--Goodness!--Joy!--Hope!--strange things to bring to a place
like this. And as if their alienism disturbed him, he moved
restlessly, almost resentfully, bit his lips nervously, moistened
them, and began putting away his things.

As the girl was starting home along Dearborn Street a few minutes
later, she chanced to look in a window. She saw that it was a
saloon, but before she could turn away she saw a man with a white
face--white with the peculiar whiteness of a dark face, standing
before the bar drinking from a small glass. She stood still,