are you so anxious about it? This is the third time you have
asked me about Mary Turner. What's it to you, I'd like to know?"

The salesgirl started violently, and a deep flush drove the
accustomed pallor from her cheeks. She was obviously much
disturbed by the question.

"What is it to me?" she repeated in an effort to gain time.
"Why, nothing--nothing at all!" Her expression of distress
lightened a little as she hit on an excuse that might serve to
justify her interest. "Nothing at all, only--she's a friend of
mine, a great friend of mine. Oh, yes!" Then, in an instant, the
look of relief vanished, as once again the terrible reality
hammered on her consciousness, and an overwhelming dejection
showed in the dull eyes and in the drooping curves of the white
lips. There was a monotone of desolation as she went on speaking
in a whisper meant for the ears of no other. "It's awful--three
years! Oh, I didn't understand! It's awful!--awful!" With the
final word, she hurried off, her head bowed. She was still
murmuring brokenly, incoherently. Her whole attitude was of
wondering grief.

Sarah stared after the girl in complete mystification. She could
not at first guess any possible cause for an emotion so poignant.
Presently, however, her shrewd, though very prosaic, commonsense
suggested a simple explanation of the girl's extraordinary
distress.

"I'll bet that girl has been tempted to steal. But she didn't,
because she was afraid." With this satisfactory conclusion of