And she thought of Chuck Mory, perched on the high seat of the American Express wagon, hatless, sunburnt, stockily muscular, shouting to his horse as he galloped clattering down Winnebago Street on his way to the depot and the 7:50 train.

I suppose there was something about the clear simplicity and uprightness of the firm little figure that appealed to Nap Ballou.  He used to regard her curiously with a long, hard gaze before which she would grow uncomfortable.  “Think you’ll know me next time you see me?” But there was an uneasy feeling beneath her flip exterior.  Not that there was anything of the beautiful, persecuted factory girl and villainous foreman about the situation.  Tessie worked at watchmaking because it was light, pleasant, and well paid.  She could have found another job for the asking.  Her money went for white shoes and pink blouses and lacy boudoir caps which she affected Sunday mornings.  She was forever buying a vivid necktie for her father and dressing up her protesting mother in gay colours that went ill with the drab, wrinkled face.  “If it wasn’t for me, you’d go round looking like one of those Polack women down by the tracks,” Tessie would scold.  “It’s a wonder you don’t wear a shawl!”

That was the Tessie of six months ago, gay, care-free, holding the reins of her life in her own two capable hands.  Three nights a week, and Sunday, she saw Chuck Mory.  When she went downtown on Saturday night it was frankly to meet Chuck, who was waiting for her on Schroeder’s drug-store corner.  He knew it, and she knew it.  Yet they always went through a little ceremony.  She and Cora, turning into Grand from Winnebago Street, would make for the post office.  Then down the length of Grand with a leaping glance at Schroeder’s corner before they reached it.  Yes, there they were, very clean-shaven, clean-shirted, slick looking.  Tessie would have known Chuck’s blond head among a thousand.  An air of studied hauteur and indifference as they approached the corner.  Heads turned the other way.  A low whistle from the boys.

“Oh, how do!”

“Good evening!”

Both greetings done with careful surprise.  Then on down the street.  On the way back you took the inside of the walk, and your hauteur was now stony to the point of insult.  Schroeder’s corner simply did not exist.  On as far as Megan’s which you entered and inspected, up one brightly lighted aisle and down the next.  At the dress-goods counter there was a neat little stack of pamphlets entitled “In the World of Fashion.”  You took one and sauntered out leisurely.  Down Winnebago Street now, homeward bound, talking animatedly and seemingly unconscious of quick footsteps sounding nearer and nearer.  Just past the Burke House, where the residential district began, and where the trees cast their kindly shadows:  “Can I see you home?” A hand slipped through her arm; a little tingling thrill.

“Oh, why, how do, Chuck!  Hello, Scotty.  Sure, if you’re going our way.”