nts two boarders."

The middle-aged woman with the glasses glanced up quickly.

"Doctor Meadows of Tittihute?" she asked. "I wont go there; he's too
strict. He's a Methodist minister. You couldn't have any fun at all."

I followed suit, denouncing Doctor Killjoy as she had, hoping that her
nervous, frisky step would lead me toward the adventure she was
evidently seeking.

"Well," the drayman responded indulgently, "I guess Mr. Norse will know
the best place for you folks."

We had come at once to the factory and the end of the boardwalk. It was
but a few minutes before Mr. Norse had revealed himself as the pivot,
the human hub, the magnet around which the mechanism of the mill
revolved and clung, sure of finding its proper balance. Tall, lank and
meager, with a wrinkled face and a furtive mustache, Mr. Norse made his
rounds with a list of complaints and comments in one hand, a pencil in
the other and a black cap on his head which tipped, indulgent, attentive
to hear and overhear. His manner was professional. He looked at us,
placed us, told us to return at one o'clock, recommended a
boarding-house, and, on his way to some other case, sent a small boy to
accompany us on future stretches of boardwalk to our lodgings. The
street we followed ended in a rolling hillside, and beyond was the
mysterious blue that holds something of the infinite in its mingling of
clouds and shadows. The Geneseo Valley lay near us like a lake under the
sky, and silhouetted against it were the factory chimney and buildings.
The wood's edge came close to the town, whose yards prolong themselves
into green meadows and farming lands. We knocked at a rusty screen door
and were welcomed with the cordiality of the country woman to whom all
folks are neighbours, all strangers possible boarders. The house, built
without mantelpiece or chimney, atoned for this cheerlessness with a
large parlour stove, whose black arms carried warmth through floor and
ceiling. A table was spread in the dining-room. A loud-ticking clock
with a rusty bell marked the hour from a shelf on the wall, and out of
the kitchen, seen in vista, came a spluttering sound of frying food. Our
hostess took us into the parlour. Several family pictures of stony-eyed
women and men with chin beards, and a life-sized Frances Willard in
chromo, looked down at our ensuing interview.

Board, lodging, heat and light we could have at $2.75 a week. Before the
husky clock had struck twelve, I wa