Myra hesitated.

“Joe.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“I want you to take me somewhere.”

“I will.”

“To—­the printery—­I want to see it again.”

“Go ’long wid you!  Marty Briggs and me are bad friends, see?”

She reveled in this new gaiety of his.

“Joe, you’re waking up. Please take me!”

“Put on your hat, your coat, and your little black gloves, young woman.  Me for the printery!”

They went out together, glad as young children.  The world was sheathed in a hard ice-coated snow; icicles dangled from every sill and cornice; the skies were melting blue, and the sun flashed along every surface.  It was a world of flashing fire, of iridescent sunbursts.  Through the clean, tingling air they walked, arm in arm, the stir of a new life in their hearts.

“Joe,” said Myra, “I want you to signalize your resurrection by a great sacrifice to the gods.”

“I’m ready.  Expound!”

“I want you to buy a new hat.”

He took off his hat and examined it.

“What’s the matter with this?”

“It’s like yourself, Joe—­worn out!”

“But the boys of Eighty-first Street won’t know me in a new hat.”

“Never mind the boys of Eighty-first Street.  Do as I tell you.”

“Aw, Myra, give me a day to steel my heart and strengthen my sinews.  Wait till we come back.”

“And you’ll get it then?”

“Sure as fate.”

“Well—­just this once you’ll have your way!”

So they took the elevated to Seventy-sixth Street and walked through the old neighborhood to the printery.  The familiar streets, which secretly bore the print of every size shoe he had worn since he was a tiny toddling fellow, made him meditative, almost sad.

“It seems ages since I was here!” he remarked.  “And yet it’s like yesterday.  What have I been doing?  Dreaming?  Will I walk into the printery, and will you come in with the ’Landing of the Pilgrims’?”

Myra laughed, both glad and sad.

“I should have charged you more,” said Joe, brusquely.  “Fifty cents was too little for that job.”

“I told you it would ruin your business, Joe.”  Strangely then they thought of the fire ... her order had been his last piece of business before the tragedy.

They walked east on Eighty-first Street and stopped before the old loft building.  A new sign was riveted on the bulletin-board in the doorway.

MARTIN BRIGGS
SUCCESSOR TO
JOE BLAINE & HIS MEN.

Joe looked at it, and started.

“It’s no dream, Myra,” he sighed.  “Times have changed, and we, too, have changed.”

Then they went up the elevator to the clash and thunder on the eighth floor.  And they felt more and more strange, double, as it were—­the old Myra and the old Joe walking with the new Myra and the new Joe.  Myra felt a queerness about her heart, a subtle sense of impending events; of great dramatic issues.  Something that made her want to cry.