would build a little balcony at the side for them, a sort of porch, and
they'd sit there in the evenings."

Behind Sidney's carefully practical tone the man read appeal. Never before
had he realized how narrow the girl's world had been. The Street, with but
one dimension, bounded it! In her perplexity, she was appealing to him who
was practically a stranger.

And he knew then that he must do the thing she asked. He, who had fled so
long, could roam no more. Here on the Street, with its menace just across,
he must live, that she might work. In his world, men had worked that women
might live in certain places, certain ways. This girl was going out to
earn her living, and he would stay to make it possible. But no hint of all
this was in his voice.

"I shall stay, of course," he said gravely. "I--this is the nearest thing
to home that I've known for a long time. I want you to know that."

So they moved their puppets about, Anna and Harriet, Christine and her
husband-to-be, Dr. Ed, even Tillie and the Rosenfelds; shifted and placed
them, and, planning, obeyed inevitable law.

"Christine shall come, then," said Sidney forsooth, "and we will throw out
a balcony."

So they planned, calmly ignorant that poor Christine's story and Tillie's
and Johnny Rosenfeld's and all the others' were already written among the
things that are, and the things that shall be hereafter.

"You are very good to me," said Sidney.