The girls who plaited hats for Blizzard had just finished luncheon and were taking their places at the long work-table.  The entrance door having clanged its bell, twenty heads bent earnestly over twenty hats in various stages of construction, and twenty pairs of hands leaped into skilful activity.

The master passed up and down on his crutches, observing progress and despatch with slow-moving, introspective eyes.  Presently he came to a halt and clapped his hands sharply together.  Twenty pairs of eyes, some cringing, some with vestiges of boldness, some favor-currying, sought his, and twenty pairs of hands ceased work as when power is shut off from as many machines.  Blizzard’s eyes passed slowly over the girls in a sort of appraising review, once, and a second time.

“Miss Rose.”

“Yes, sir.”

The speaker was one of those flowers of girlhood which bloom here and there in the slums.  She might have been a princess in exile and disguise.  Even her hands and feet were fine and delicate.  And if in her expression there was a certain nervousness, there was none of fear.

“Stand up.”

She rose in her place; the corners of her mouth trembled a little, but curled steadily upward.

“Stand out where I can see you.”

She did so, with a certain defiant grace.

“Turn around, slowly.”

She might have been one of those young ladies at a fashionable dressmaker’s upon whom the effect of the latest Parisian models is continually tried.  While she slowly gyrated, the legless man, looking up at her, spoke aloud.

“Muck!  Muck!” he said.  “And yet she’s the pick of the bunch.”

The girl kept on turning,

“Stand still.”

She did as ordered, but it so happened that her back was squarely turned upon the master.

“No monkey business,” he shouted.  “Face me!  Face me!”

She faced him, still scornful, but white now, and biting her lips.

“The rest of you,” he said, “will have the rest of the day off.  Get out.”

Seventy-six chair-legs squeaked, and Miss Rose’s nineteen companions, with murmurs and occasional nervous giggles, hurried off to the coat-room.  A few minutes later the bell of the outer door clanged once—­they were going; clanged a second time—­they were gone.

[Illustration:  She faced him, still scornful, but white now, and biting her lips]

Meanwhile the legless man had not taken his hard, calculating eyes off the girl who remained.  Presently he spoke.  “We’re alone,” he said.  “I’m between you and the door.”  He spread his great arms, as if to emphasize the impassability of the barrier which confronted her.  “Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

The legless man laughed.  “Well said,” he remarked, “and truthfully said.  And why are you afraid?”

“Everybody’s afraid of you.”

He regarded her for some moments in silence.  “You needn’t be.  Have I ever hurt you?”