ouds；　　machine…embroidered；　floated　around　him。　　Too　many　sweets　bring　　surfeit。　　He　looked　upon　Hetty　Pepper's　homely　countenance；　emerald　　eyes；　and　chocolate…colored　hair　as　a　welcome　oasis　of　green　in　a　　desert　of　cloying　beauty。　　In　a　quiet　angle　of　a　counter　he　pinched　　her　arm　kindly；　three　inches　above　the　elbow。　　She　slapped　him　three　　feet　away　with　one　good　blow　of　her　muscular　and　not　especially　lily…　white　right。　　So；　now　you　know　why　Hetty　Pepper　came　to　leave　the　　Biggest　Store　at　thirty　minutes'　notice；　with　one　dime　and　a　nickel　in　　her　purse。
  This　morning's　quotations　list　the　price　of　rib　beef　at　six　cents　per　　（butcher's）　pound。　　But　on　the　day　that　Hetty　was　〃released〃　by　the　B。　　　S。　　the　price　was　seven　and　one…half　cents。　　That　fact　is　what　makes　　this　story　possible。　　Otherwise；　the　extra　　four　cents　would　have
  But　the　plot　of　nearly　all　the　good　stories　in　the　world　is　concerned　　with　shorts　who　were　unable　to　cover；　so　you　can　find　no　fault　with　　this　one。
  Hetty　mounted　with　her　rib　beef　to　her　3。50　third…floor　back。　　One　　hot；　savory　beef…stew　for　supper；　a　night's　good　sleep；　and　she　would　　be　fit　in　the　morning　to　apply　again　for　the　tasks　of　Hercules；　Joan　　of　Arc；　Una；　Job；　and　Little…Red…Riding…Hood。
  In　her　room　she　got　the　granite…ware　stew…pan　out　of　the　2x4…foot　　chinaerI　mean　earthenware　closet；　and　began　to　dig　down　in　a　　rats'…nest　of　paper　bags　for　the　potatoes　and　onions。　　She　came　out　　with　her　nose　and　chin　just　a　little　sharper　pointed。
  There　was　neither　a　potato　nor　an　onion。　　Now；　what　kind　of　a　beef…　Stew　can　you　make　out　of　simply　beef？　　You　can　make　oyster…soup　　without　oysters；　turtle…soup　without　turtles；　coffee…cake　without　　coffee；　but　you　can't　make　beef…stew　without　potatoes　and　onions。
  But　rib　beef　alone；　in　an　emergency；　can　make　an　ordinary　pine　door　　look　like　a　wrought…iron　gambling…house　portal　to　the　wolf。　　With　salt　　and　pepper　and　a　tablespoonful　of　flour　（first　well　stirred　in　a　　little　cold　water）　'twill　serve'tis　not　so　deep　as　a　lobster　a　la　　Newburg　nor　so　wide　as　a　church　festival　doughnut；　but　'twill　serve。
  Hetty　took　her　stew…pan　to　the　rear　of　the　third…floor　hall。　　　According　to　the　advertisements　of　the　Vallambrosa　there　was　running　　water　to　be　found　there。　　Between　you　and　me　and　the　water…meter；　it　　only　ambled　or　walked　through　the　faucets；　but　technicalities　have　no　　place　here。　　There　was　also　a　sink　where　housekeeping　roomers　often　　met　to　dump　their　coffee　grounds　and　glare　at　one　another's　kimonos。
  At　this　sink　Hetty　found　a　girl　with　heavy；　gold…brown；　artistic　hair　　and　plaintive　eyes；　washing　two　large　〃Irish〃　potatoes。　　Hetty　knew　　the　Vallambrosa　as　well　as　any　one　not　owning　〃double　hextra…　magnifying　eyes〃　could　compass　its　mysteries。　　The　kimonos　were　her　　encyclopedia；　her　〃Who's　What？〃　her　clearinghouse　of　news；　of　goers　　and　comers。　　From　a　rose…pink　kimono　edged　with　Nile　green　she　had　　learned　that　the　girl　with　the　potatoes　was　a　miniature…painter　living　　in　a　kind　of　atticor　〃studio；〃　as　they　prefer　to　call　iton　the　top　　floor。　　Hetty　was　not　certain　in　her　mind　what　a　miniature　was；　but　it　　certainly　wasn't　a　house；　because　house…painters；　although　they　wear　　splashy　overalls　and　poke　ladders　in　your　face　on　the　street；　are　　known　to　indulge　in　a　riotous　profusion　of　food　at　home。
  The　potato　girl　was　quite　slim　and　small；　and　handled　her　potatoes　as　　an　old　bachelor　uncle　handles　a　baby　who　is　cutting　teeth。　　She　had　a　　dull　shoemaker's　knife　in　her　right　hand；　and　she　had　begun　to　peel　　one　of　the　potatoes　with　it。
  Hetty　addressed　her　in　the　punctiliously　formal　tone　of　one　who　　intends　to　be　cheerfully　familiar　with　you　in　the　second　round。
  〃Beg　pardon；〃　she　said；　〃for　butting　into　what's　not　my　business；　but　　if　you　peel　them　potatoes　you　lose　out。　　They're　new　Bermudas。　　You　　want　to　scrape　'em。　　Lemme　show　you。〃
  She　took　a　potato　and　the　knife；　and　began　to　demonstrate。
  〃Oh；　thank　you；〃　breathed　the　artist。　　〃I　didn't　know。　　And　I　did　hate　　to　see　the　thick　peeling　go；　it　seemed　such　a　waste。　　But　I　thought　　they　always　had　to　be　peeled。　　When　you've　got　only　potatoes　to　eat；　　the　peelings　count；　you　know。〃
  〃Say；　kid；〃　said　Hetty；　staying　her　knife；　〃you　ain't　up　against　it；　　too；　are　you？〃
  The　miniature　artist　smiled　starvedly。
  〃I　suppose　I　am。　　Artor；　at　least；　the　way　I　interpret　itdoesn't　　seem　to　be　much　in　demand。　　I　have　only　these　potatoes　for　my　dinner。　　　But　they　aren't　so　bad　boiled　and　hot；　with　a　little　butter　and　salt。〃
  〃Child；〃　said　Hetty；　letting　a　brief　smile　soften　her　rigid　features；　　〃Fate　has　sent　me　and　you　together。　　I've　had　it　handed　to　me　in　the　　neck；　too；　but　I've　got　a　chunk　of　meat　in　my；　room　as　big　as　a　lap…dog。　And　I've　done　everything　to　get　potatoes　　except　pray　for　'em。　　　Let's　me　and　you　bunch　our　commissary　　departments　and　make　a　stew　of　'em。　We'll　cook　it　in　my　room。　　If　we　　only　had　an　onion　to　go　in　it！　　　Say；　kid；　you　haven't　got　a　couple　of　pennies　that've　slipped　down　　into　the　lining　of　your　last　winter's　sealskin；　have　you？　　　I　could　step　down　to　the　corner　and　get　one　at　old　Giuseppe's　stand。　A　stew　without　an　onion　is　worse'n　a　matinee　without　candy。〃
  〃You　may　call　me　Cecilia；〃　said　the　artist。　　〃No；　I　spent　my　last　　penny　three　days　ago。〃
  〃Then　we'll　have　to　cut　the　onion　out　instead　of　slicing　it　in；〃　said　　Hetty。　　〃I'd　ask　the　janitress　for　one；　but　I　don't　want　'em　hep　just　　yet　to　the　fact　that　I'm　pounding　the　asphalt　for　another　job。　　But　I　　wish　we　did　have　an　onion。〃
  In　the　shop…girl's　room　the　two　began　to　prepare　their　supper。　　　Cecilia's　part　was　to　sit　on　the　couch　helplessly　and　beg　to　be　　allowed　to　do　something；　in　the　voice　of　a　cooing　ring…dove。　　Hetty　　prepared　the　rib　beef；　putting　it　in　cold　salted　water　in　the　stew…pan　　and　setting　it　on　the　one…burner　gas…stove。
  〃I　wish　we　had　an　onion；〃　said　Hetty；　as　she　scraped　the　two　potatoes。
  On　the　wall　opposite　the　couch　was　pinned　a　flaming；　gorgeous　　advertising　picture　of　one　of　the　new　ferry…boats　of　the　P。　　U。　　F。　　　F。　　Railroad　that　had　been　built　to　cut　down　the　time　between　Los　　Angeles　and　New　York　City　one…eighth　of　a　minute。
  Hetty；　turning　her　head　during　her　continuous　monologue；　saw　tears　　running　from　her　guest's　eyes　as　she　gazed　on　the　idealized　　presentment　of　the　speeding；　foam…girdled　transport。
  〃Why；　say；　Cecilia；　kid；〃　said　Hetty；　poising　her　knife；　〃is　it　as　bad　　art　as　that？　　I　ain't　a　critic；　but　I　thought　it　kind　of　brightened　up　　the　room。　　Of　course；　a　manicure…painter　could　tell　it　was　a　bum　　picture　in　a　minute。　　I'll　take　it　down　if　you　say　so。　　I　wish　to　the　　holy　Saint　Potluck　we　had　an　onion。〃
  But　the　miniature　miniature…painter　had　tumbled　down；　sobbing；　with　　her　nose　indenting　the　hard…woven　drapery　of　the　couch。　　Something　was　　here　deeper　than　the　artistic　temperament　offended　at　crude　　lithography。
  Hetty　knew。　　She　had　accepted　her　role　long　ago。　　How　scant　the　words　　with　which　we　try　to　describe　a　single　quality　of　a　human　being！　When　　we　reach　the　abstract　we　are　lost。　　The　nearer　to　Nature　that　the　　babbling　of　our　lips　comes；　the　better　do　we　understand。　　Figuratively　　（let　us　say）；　some　people　are　Bosoms；　some　are　Hands；　some　are　Heads；　　some　are　Muscles；　some　are　Feet；　some　are　Backs　for　burdens。
  Hetty　was　a　Shoulder。　　Hers　was　a　sharp；　sinewy　shoulder；　but　all　her　　life　people　had　laid　their　heads　upon　it；　metaphorically　or　actually；　　and　had　left　there　all　or　half　their　troubles。　　Looking　at　Life　　anatomically；　which　is　as　good　a　way　as　any；　she　was　preordained　to　be　　a　Shoulder。　　There　were　few　truer　collar…bones　anywhere　than　hers。
  Hetty　was　only　thirty…three；　and　she　had　not　yet　outlived　the　little　　pang　that　visited　her　whenever　the　head　of　youth　and　beauty　leaned　　upon　her　for　consolation。　　But　one　glance　in　her　mirror　always　served　　as　an　instantaneous　pain…killer。　　So　she　gave　one　pale　look　into　the　　crinkly　old　looking…glass　on　the　wall　above　the　gas…stove；　turned　down　　the　flame　a　little　lower　from　the　bubbling　beef　and　potatoes；　went　　over　to　the　couch；　and　lifted　Cecilia's　head　to　its　confessional。
  〃Go　on　and　tell　me；　honey；〃　she　said。　　〃I　know　now　that　it　ain't　art　　that's　worrying　you。　　You　met　him　on　a　ferry…boat；　didn't　you？　Go　on；　　Cecilia；　kid；　and　tell　youryour　Aunt　Hetty　about　it。〃
  But　youth　and　melancholy　must　first　spend　the　surplus　of　sighs　and　　tears　that　waft　and　float　the　barque　of　romance　to　its　harbor　in　the　　delectable　isles。　　Presently；　through　the　stringy　tendons　that　formed　　the　bars　of　the　confessional；　the　penitentor　was　it　the　glorified　　communicant　of　the　sacred　flametold　her　story　without　art　or　　illumination。
  〃It　was　only　three　days　ago。　　I　was　coming　back　on　the　ferry　from　　Jersey　City。　　Old　Mr。　　Schrum；　an　art　dealer；　told　me　of　a　rich　man　in　　Newark　who　wanted　a　miniature　of　his　daughter　painted。　　I　went　to　see　　him　and　showed　him　some　of　my　work。　　When　I　told　him　the　price　would　　be　fifty　dollars　he　laughed　at　me　like　a　hyena。　　He　said　an　enlarged　　crayon　twenty　times　the　size　would　cost　him　only　eight　dollars。
  〃I　had　just　enough　money　to　buy　my　ferry　ticket　back　to　New　York。　　I　　felt　as　if　I　didn't　want　to　live　another　day。　　I　must　have　look