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When we stood for a few moments at a crossing, waiting for a check in the tide of traffic, she confided to me that she had come to Chicago from “——ville” to see a lawyer.

“You are often in the city,” I suggested, delighted to talk on the pleasant, easy terms which were springing up between us.

“Oh, no! I ain’t,” she said, and then she was innocently superior to the compliment implied in my feigned surprise, and she began to question me about myself.

“What do you do for a living, young man?”

“I am out of work, and I am looking for a job,” I said, evasively.

“What is your line of work?” she continued; for the bucolic mind was bent on a sure footing from which to launch out into further inquiry.

“I shall be glad of any work that I can get,” I said. “Any work at all,” I reiterated, thinking that she might put me in the way of a job.

“Where do you live when you’re to home?” and the question indicated a new tack in the quest for certitude.

“I came out here from the East” I answered; “I have no home here.”