Great Taylor had seen Grit pass along this narrow segment of street, visible from her window; but his flight had always been swift—­pushing steadily with head bent, never looking up.  And so it was not during his hours of toil that she had known him....

Nell closed the window.  She was not going to think of him any more.  “Ain’t worth a thought.”  But everything in the room reminded her of the man.  He had furnished it from his junk-pile.  The drawer was missing from the centre table, the door of the kitchen stove was wired at the hinges; even the black marble clock, with its headless gilt figure, and the brown tin boxes marked “Coffee,” “Bread,” and “Sugar”—­all were junk.  And these were the things that Grit, not without a show of pride, had brought home to her!

Nell sank into a large armchair (with one rung gone) and glowered at an earthen jug on the shelf.  Grit had loved molasses.  Every night he had spilt amber drops of it on the table, and his plate had always been hard to wash.  “Won’t have that to do any more,” sighed Nell.  Back of the molasses jug, just visible, were the tattered pages of a coverless book.  This had come to Grit together with fifty pounds of waste paper in gunny-sacks; and though Nell had never undergone the mental torture of informing herself as to its contents, she had dubbed the book “Grit’s Bible,” for he had pawed over it, spelling out the words, every night for years.  It was one thing from which she could not wash Grit’s grimy fingermarks, and so she disliked it even more than the sticky molasses jug.  “Him and his book and his brown molasses jug!” One was gone forever, and soon she would get rid of the other two.

And yet, even as she thought this, her eyes moved slowly to the door, and she could not help visualizing Grit as he had appeared every evening at dusk.  His baggy breeches had seemed always to precede him into the room.  The rest of him would follow—­his thin shoulders, from which there hung a greenish coat, frayed at the sleeves; above this, his long, collarless neck, his pointed chin and broken nose, that leaned toward the hollow and smudges of his cheek.

He would lock the door quickly and stand there, looking at Nell.

“Why did he always lock the door?” mused Great Taylor.  “Nothing here to steal!  Why’d he stand there like that?” Every night she had expected him to say something, but he never did.  Instead, he would take a long breath, almost like a sigh, and, after closing his eyes for a moment, he would move into the room and light the screeching gas-jet.  “Never thought of turning down the gas.”  This, particularly, was a sore point with Great Taylor.  “Never thought of anything.  Just dropped into the best chair.”

“It’s a good chair, Nell,” he would say, “only one rung missing.”  And he would remain silent, drooping there, wrists crossed in his lap, palms turned upward, fingers curled, until supper had been placed before him on the table.  “Fingers bent like claws,” muttered Great Taylor, “and doing nothing while I set the table.”