ack ground to her feet and groveled before her. I
kissed her shoes and the ankles above her shoes. When
the hem of her garment touched my face I trembled. When
after two years of that life I found she had managed to
acquire three other lovers who came regularly to our
house when I was away at work, I didn't want to touch
them or her. I just sent her home to her mother and
said nothing. There was nothing to say. I had four
hundred dollars in the bank and I gave her that. I
didn't ask her reasons. I didn't say anything. When she
had gone I cried like a silly boy. Pretty soon I had a
chance to sell the house and I sent that money to her."

Wash Williams and George Willard arose from the pile of
railroad ties and walked along the tracks toward town.
The operator finished his tale quickly, breathlessly.

"Her mother sent for me," he said. "She wrote me a
letter and asked me to come to their house at Dayton.
When I got there it was evening about this time."

Wash Williams' voice rose to a half scream. "I sat in
the parlor of that house two hours. Her mother took me
in there and left me. Their house was stylish. They
were what is called respectable people. There were
plush chairs and a couch in the room. I was trembling
all over. I hated the men I thought had wronged her. I
was sick of living alone and wanted her back. The
longer I waited the more raw and tender I became. I
thought that if she came in and just touched me with
her hand I would perhaps faint away. I ached to forgive
and forget."

Wash Williams stopped and stood staring at George
Willard. The boy's body shook as from a chill. Again
the man's voice became soft and low. "She came into the
room naked," he went on. "Her mother did that. While I
sat there she was taking the girl's clothes off,
perhaps coaxing her to do it. First I heard voices at
the door that led into a little hallway and then it
opened softly. The girl was ashamed and stood perfectly
still staring at the floor. The mother didn't come into
the room. When she had pushed the girl in through the
door she stood in the hallway waiting, hoping we
would--well, you see--waiting."

George Willard and the telegraph operator came into the
main street of Winesburg. The lights from the store
windows lay bright and shining on the sidewalks. People
moved about laughing and talking. The young reporter
felt ill and weak. In imagination, he also became old
and shapeless. "I didn't get the mother killed,"