appetite. With arms still aching from the lifting of heavy bolts
of cloth to and fro from the shelves, she nevertheless was at
pains nightly to brush with the appointed two hundred strokes the
thick masses of her hair. Even here, in the sordid desolation of
the cell, the lustrous sheen witnessed the fidelity of her care.
So, in each detail of her, the keen observer might have found
adequate reason for admiration. There was the delicacy of the
hands, with fingers tapering, with nails perfectly shaped,
neither too dull nor too shining. And there were, too, finally,
the trimly shod feet, set rather primly on the floor, small, and
arched like those of a Spanish Infanta. In truth, Mary Turner
showed the possibilities at least, if not just now the realities,
of a very beautiful woman.

Naturally, in this period of grief, the girl's mind had no
concern with such external merits over which once she had
modestly exulted. All her present energies were set to precise
recollection of the ghastly experience into which she had been
thrust.

In its outline, the event had been tragically simple.

There had been thefts in the store. They had been traced
eventually to a certain department, that in which Mary worked.
The detective was alert. Some valuable silks were missed.
Search followed immediately. The goods were found in Mary's
locker. That was enough. She was charged with the theft. She
protested innocence--only to be laughed at in derision by her
accusers. Every thief declares innocence. Mr. Gilder himself was
emphatic against her. The thieving had been long continued. An