Lucky for K. Le Moyne that the moon no longer shone on the low gray

doorstep, that Sidney's mind had traveled far away to shining floors and

rows of white beds. "Life--in the raw," Dr. Ed had said that other

afternoon. Closer to her than the hospital was life in the raw that night.

So, even here, on this quiet street in this distant city, there was to be

no peace. Max Wilson just across the way! It--it was ironic. Was there

no place where a man could lose himself? He would have to move on again,

of course.

But that, it seemed, was just what he could not do. For: "I want to ask you to do something, and I hope you'll be quite frank," said



"Anything that I can do--"

"It's this. If you are comfortable, and--and like the room and all that, I

wish you'd stay." She hurried on: "If I could feel that mother had a

dependable person like you in the house, it would all be easier."

Dependable! That stung.

"But--forgive my asking; I'm really interested--can your mother manage?

You'll get practically no money during your training."

"I've thought of that. A friend of mine, Christine Lorenz, is going to be

married. Her people are wealthy, but she'll have nothing but what Palmer

makes. She'd like to have the parlor and the sitting room behind. They

wouldn't interfere with you at all," she added hastily. "Christine's father

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.

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