The girl placed the candle on a spot made clear for that small round, tin stand, and then glancing anxiously at the door, stole over to make sure that the bolt was shot, hurried back and proceeded to untie the knot of string responsible for the drapery over the orange box.  By the glare of the candle’s flame her fingers could be seen stained with oil, and grim, as they expertly worked at the tied-up skirt, and finally succeeded in pulling apart the ragged folds.  Quickly she slipped one small hand beneath the calico, and, obtaining her quest, drew back to examine it.

One, two, three green bills.  Her savings and her fortune.  Lights and shadows crossing the youthful face betrayed the hopes, and fears mingling with, such emotions as the girl lived through in this crowded hour, but no sooner had she slipped the small roll of bills into the flaring neck of her thin blouse, than a shaking at the door caused her to kick the telescope bag under the bed, hastily readjust the cover of the orange box, blow out the capering candle flame, and then open the door.  A woman young in face but old in posture scuffled in.  She wore a shawl on her head, although the season was warm April, and the plentiful quantities of material swathed in her attire proclaimed her foreign.

“Oh, Dagmar.  I am tired,” she sighed.  “I thought you would come down to fix supper for papa.  You do not change your skirt?  No?”

“I was going to, so I locked the door,” replied the girl Dagmar.  “But I, too, was tired.”

“Yes, it is so.  Well, the mill is not so bad.  It has a new window near my bench, and I breathe better.  But, daughter, we must go down.  Keep the door locked as you dress.  Those new peoples may not tell which is the right room.”  With a glance at the fair daughter, so unlike herself in coloring, the working mother dragged herself out again, and soon could be heard cliptrapping down the dark stairs that led to the kitchens on the first floor of the mill workers, community lodgings.

Dagmar breathed deeply and clasped her hands tightly as her mother’s tired foottread fell to an echo.  Love filled the blue eyes and an affectionate smile wreathed the red lips.

“Poor mother!” she sighed aloud.  “I hate to—­”

Then again came that look of determination, and when Dagmar slipped down the stairs she carried the telescope and her crochetted hand bag.  Her velvet tarn sat jauntily on those wonderful yellow curls, and her modern cape flew gracefully out, just showing the least fold of her best chiffon blouse.  Dagmar wore strickly American clothes, selected in rather good taste, and they attracted much attention in the streets of Flosston.

Once clear of the long brown building, through which spots of light now struck the night, out of those desperate rows and rows of machine-made windows, Dagmar made her way straight to the corner, then turned straight again to another long narrow street, her very steps corresponding to that painful directness of line and plan, common to towns made by mill-owners for their employees.  Even the stars, now pricking their way through the blue, seemed to throw down straight lines of light on Flosston; nothing varied the mechanical exactness, and monotonous squares and angles of streets, buildings, and high board fences.