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At twelve o’clock Mr. Jenkins touched her kindly on the arm. She looked up with a start. Her face was gray and old; her eyes were almost wild in their strained despair.

“I guess I’ll have to shet up now, Mis’ Dupen,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry—”

She got down from the stool at once. “I can’t take them things,” she said, almost whispering. “I hate to of put yuh to all that trouble of doin’ ’em up. I thought—but I can’t take ’em. I hope yuh won’t mind—very much.” Her bony fingers twisted together under her thin shawl.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Jenkins in an embarrassed way. She moved stiffly to the door. He put out the lights and followed her. He felt mean, somehow. For one second he hesitated, then he locked the door, and gave it a shake to make sure that it was all right.

“Well,” he said, “good night. I wish you a mer—”

“Good night,” said the woman. She was turning away when the doors of the saloon opened for two or three men to enter. The music, which had ceased for a few minutes, struck up another air—a familiar air.